


Alexithymia

by stories11



Series: One Last Kiss [2]
Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Car Accident, F/M, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Major Injury, Not a fic for the faint of heart, Period-Typical Homophobia, Seriously there's a lot of dark things in this please approach with caution, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-10 23:39:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7865959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stories11/pseuds/stories11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curt Mega and Owen Carvour exist between the lines. Legal and illegal, existence and non existence, friends and lovers. When they depend on each other to stay alive, there's no room for anything but blind trust. What happens when those lines begin to blur together and make it harder to avoid the black and white nature of the world at large?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

     There isn’t a word for it--- at least that’s what he tells himself to justify the emotions that swell every time he’s around his partner.

     Pulse racing, the adrenaline rush of the mission is still coursing hard and high through the agent's veins as he slams his back to the wall, filling his lungs with acrid air. It tastes like smoke, it burns with every inhale and he’s watching, waiting for him to emerge from the cloud of grey. Red and orange dancing bright and hot in the distance, he’s willing him to emerge through the grey. It’s too difficult to keep sight in the thick of it, and they should have been cleared already but that damned obsession with time. With making it all a game. With being the very best spy in the world.

     “Come on.” The word is barely whispered, something between a growl and a plea, Curt Mega does not beg, but he worries. He worries about Owen above all else, but he won’t say it aloud.

     And there he is. A dark figure coming out of the smoke, shirt pulled up to cover his mouth and nose (Owen had always been smarter about these sorts of things) and Curt can’t help but smile a little at the sight of him. They’re still not quite clear yet, but they’ll make it out soon. Together. Curt shouldn’t have stopped, but he wasn’t about to leave without him.

     No words pass between them as Curt takes cues from the British agent and pulls his shirt up to cover his mouth, and falls into a steady pace beside him. As if covering it now will somehow make up the difference for the smoke inhalation when they were still inside the building. They’re almost out of the compound now, a car waiting a few minutes away, they made it out with their lives, and the blueprints are currently tucked up into Curt’s sleeve. Something done out of convenience and necessity in the moment.

     They couldn’t speak if they wanted to, crushing waves of sound wash over the, as sections of the buildings began to crumble and fall. There aren’t going to be any survivors, they’d made quite sure of that. There’s no screaming, or gunfire, alarms and explosion filling the air and pricking at his eye, with heart pounding in his ears. This adrenaline is what he lives for, but when the fabric slips he gets another burning lungful of air and he start to stumble and fall behind. Dizziness from the lack of air hits like a speeding bullet, and Owen has to grip his arm and pull him forward to keep with the momentum.

     Hauling their way across the concrete, the glimmering reflection of fire on black paint, as they approach the car. Breathing hard, he almost stumbles as they reach it, and Owen shoots him a worried glance as he fumbles with the handle of the door, but manages to make it in letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. This passes only for him to inhale as much of the clean air that he can manage, with Owen pulling a similar if not more measured maneuver in the drivers seat.

     Curt hasn’t been allowed to drive since their mission in Peru, as Mega had seemed to take every speed limit posting as a challenge, even when they weren’t trying to escape from compounds or enemies. Subtlety had never been one of his strong suits.

     "Are you alright, Curt?” Owen’s voice is soft, distant almost to Mega’s ears, he can’t quite focus yet.

     Head still swimming from the smoke, and it takes three repetitions before Curt finally answers, a soft breathless thing. “Six minutes.”

     “What?” There’s a spark of concern in his eyes, wondering if perhaps the american had breathed in too much smoke. If their next stop might need to be to a hospital, or at least a medic of some sort with one of their agencies.

     “Six minutes--- we beat our record.” A cocky sort of grin graces his lips as he sinks back into the seat, digging into his jacket pocket to produce a flask which quickly graces his lips drowning out the burning of smoke with whiskey. A celebratory drink that gets Carvour to roll his eyes and exhale slightly in relief.

     “Curt Mega you’re going to be the death of me.” Keys slip into the ignition, and he shoots Curt a questioning glance when the flask is offered to him. A moment of hesitation before he takes it, and he only has a sip (a celebration in its own right) before he’s passing it back to his partner. “If you don’t get yourself killed first. Try to be more careful in the future, love, I thought I was about to lose you for a moment back there.”

     A laugh spills forth from the american’s lips, hoarse and bitter but still smiling. “You won’t get rid of me that easily you limey bastard.”

     He doesn’t hesitate to lean across the console and presses his lips to the other man’s cheek with that same cheeky demeanor he always has. It’s one of the few precious moments of freedom they have. There’s no one around who might possibly see them, and Owen takes the opportunity to turn and look at his partner’s face. Truly look at it and admire him for who he is. Gently brushing back his hair with his fingertips before he presses his lips to his, and it tastes like smoke and whiskey. It’s these slow moments that make doing what they do worth while. Worth the risk of its existence.

     "Wouldn’t dream of it, Curt.”


	2. Chapter 2

     Another kiss lingers, a soft, gentle thing, unlike some of their more passionate frantic occurrences. Simply because they have time for once, rather than rushing in any moments of intimacy they can in the cross sections of distance and privacy. For how secretive spies must be, it's surprisingly rare that they have a moment of true privacy. No trackers, or calls, or cameras, just a moment of sweet bliss. Hands tangling into each other's hair, they remain locked in place until the air is depleted in each other's lungs and they're reluctantly forced to part. Foreheads touching, they can't help still smiling, ever so slightly. This little secret of theirs is perhaps the only thing about them that no one else on the face of the planet knows, secret sides that no one else gets to see. But they can't stay like this forever.

     "They're going to start wondering where you are soon, especially if that explosion shows up on their radar. You should probably turn your tracker back on."

     It's a reluctant statement, and he's almost sorry he said it if only for the look on Curt's face and the way that he pulls away. They both knew it wouldn't last for more than a few precious moments, but it's still never welcomed when they have to stop. The older of the two retreats back into his seat with an annoyed huff, looking to Owen without comment for a long moment before removing his earpiece and placing it in the glovebox. It's only then that he activates the tracker in his watch.

     "We were having a moment there, couldn't you just let it be?"

     "Sorry, love, but if we don't at least act like we're following protocol people are going to start asking questions. I expect you'll be getting a call from Cynthia any moment now, asking how it went Of course it might be a bit difficult to hear without your earpiece."

     "That's the point of it. The least we can have is a bit of privacy on the ride back. We've earned that much, haven't we?"

     Shaking his head, Owen sighs, knowing better than to argue with him as they pull away from the compound, and a glance to the rear view mirror shows a strange juxtaposition of the burning building through the back window, and Curt smiling ever so slightly in the passenger sear, before he readjusts it. The silence settles to a soft rhythm of breathing. They don't always need words to communicate.

     Inhale. _I missed you_. Exhale. _I'm glad you made it out okay._ Inhale. _Cynthia's been a bitch lately._ Exhale. _What have we become?_

     Curt is the first one to break the silence as they continue to roll down the highway, fingers drumming on the door absentmindedly. A landscape of green and blue painted in shades of pale moonlight, he absentmindedly thinks about the romantic connotations of it. If it were a woman beside him, or if he himself were a woman no one would question if he took their hand. If he kissed them when eyes were upon them if he said four little letters it would mean nothing at all, but because Owen is a man as surely as himself, it means everything. For this one moment, he doesn't care. So he settles for a soft spoken statement.

     "Pull over here."

     "We're in the middle of nowhere."

     "I know, just pull over. Trust me."

     The car slides onto the shoulder of the road with ease, Owen glancing over towards the American agent with a quizzical expression. He's wondering if he's inhaled too much smoke, and his gaze is fixed firmly on his face and the conflicting emotions that seem to keep passing through it, so fixated that he doesn't notice the way that Curt's fingers are clenched tightly upon his knees. He's staring straight ahead, jarred somewhat by the thoughts that don't seem to be passing. They always have this moment. Every time they're together there's always a moment where this question comes up of risk versus reward. Of labels and secrecy because there is no name for this, not really, because it can't exist. They're breaking not only the rules, but the law. If anyone knew about these secret moments, of the thoughts and questions that race through Curt's mind every time he looks at his partner, there would be cells carved out for both of them.

     "Curt, what the bloody-"

     He's cut off rather suddenly as the American's hands are suddenly curled in his shirt and his hair, and his lips are pressed to his, and it's not sweet or gentle as before. It's a violent, aggressive thing- _desperate_ to one who might know better. Owen is kissing him back, matching the aggression that's normally so well cloaked to the naked eye. It's raw unbridled emotion that refuses to be suppressed, escaping in droves from them both. And it's enough in this moment. Enough to make the adrenaline flood Curt's veins once more, and bring his pounding heart back to life. To make himself feel whole and alive. In moments like this, nothing but his partner exists, and it can be easy to forget what the world would do if they were to know what they did in these brief seconds of privacy. A violent delight that's all but guaranteed to have a violent end for them both, and they're pried apart by lights down the highway. Reward could only win over risk for so long.

      "What was that for?"

_I needed to really remind myself what it is to be alive._

      "I missed you."

      "I can tell."

      "Can't you stay tonight? Tell MI6 the mission is running long or something?" It's uncommon for this side of Curt to show, even to Owen. So often the agent is lost to the mask that he forgets that it's not the whole of him.

      "Curt, it's not that I don't want to..." The British agent reaches for Curt's hand but it's violently retracted causing the smallest twinge of guilt and hurt. It's not as if he wants to go back so soon, especially when they already have such little time spent together, but he has orders to follow and those orders mean that he has to be on a plane back to London later that evening. "...I have orders."

     "And so do I. Does that mean I listen to them all the time like some sort of robot?" An almost indignant question, and it's mean, and he knows it. They always have this fight, and Curt knows it's because Owen is the better spy, but he still tries, and hopes that maybe just once he'll bend. Of course he regrets it when he sees the fraction of a second when his face falls at being called a robot, before it slips back into that impenetrable mask he knows all too well. He hates it when he does that.

     "We should get going. We've got a long drive ahead." He doesn't wait for an answer as he's putting the car back into drive and pulling off the shoulder once more. There's a time and a place for this argument, but it's not here, or now. Not as clouds are beginning to gather ahead and obscure the moonlight, and he's hoping to beat it if a storm is coming. A final glance to the sullen passenger now taking solace in his flask, and they're off again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fair warning, this chapter is not for the faint of heart, and I highly recommend proceeding with caution.

     Thirty minutes pass without a word splitting the silence that festers bitter and cold, and the rain begins to fall around them. The moonlight has been dimmed to non existence by the gathering clouds, the shades of grey drowned out to near pitch black, save for the section of road illuminated by the headlights. The rain is coming down harder now. Pouring in heavy sheets, as if demanding that its presence be acknowledged, but there's nothing but the quiet bitterness of the fight.

     Curt won't even glance in Owen's direction, gaze fixed steadily on the passing landscapes through the haze of rain and inky black night. He's always been like that. Stubborn, and unrelenting when he feels somehow slighted, even if it isn't entirely justified. Lightning illuminates the whole of the night for a brief moment in strobed shades of white, and with little more prompting, Curt's fidgeting hands come to gather his flask and tip it back against his lips. There's something desperate about the motion, something Owen doesn't quite get until the thunder rips through the air and the american can't suppress the flinch. Forcing down another swallow of the burning liquid, he's running out and it's not enough. Another flash of lightning, and he's shrinking back in his seat, flask haphazardly forced back into his shirt, and he's got a white knuckle grip on the door. These things don't go unnoticed by Carvour, and he hesitantly reaches out to take the agent's free hand, voice soft with concern as he allows his attentions to wander from the road for a brief moment.

     "Curt...?"

     " _No_."

     Without another word, he wrenches his hand away from Owen's gentle grip, eyes torn from the landscape to stare into Owen's own, gaze still burning with hurt because he never stays. Not that it's his fault, not really, but after months apart it wrenches open ancient wounds to know that even now he won't stay. It continues to last even as the tires begin to slip ever so slightly on the wet pavement, but it isn't until another crash of thunder breaks the silence that Curt flinches again, breaking the staring contest.

     "It's just a bit of thunder, love."

     Taking Curt's hand once again, his tone of voice is meant to be calming, as his fingers insistently work their way to be entwined with the american, despite his stubbornness. Another worried sidelong glance, and he wonders if there's something more to this. He's watched the famous Curt Mega gun down villains, run from bombs, even withstand torture with nothing less than a confident smile and wise crack, and yet somehow thunder of all thing has managed to reduce him to this. Another crash of thunder, and there it is again. A soft whimper and Curt unintentionally gripping his hand just a little bit tighter.

     Attention divided between the road and the man in the passenger seat, it's no wonder that Owen doesn't notice the single light approaching in the rearview mirror at a pace far too fast, and suddenly slowing as they grow close. Another glance to Curt and suddenly there's a motorcycle beside them, matching pace when another flash of lightning illuminates the rider, and the faint shape of a firearm clutched in his hand.

     "Get down!"

     Both agents are quickly ducking down as best they can manage just as two shots ring out loud and clear through the night, followed by the squealing of rubber as the bike sped off into the distance. There's no time to chase them down as the tires shred, blown out from the shots. They're skidding out of control. Even with Owen grasping the wheel and trying to control the vehicle they're spinning out, metal sparking against the wet pavement. The sound grates against the night in angry squeals and screeches as they're losing control faster and faster in a span of seconds that seems to last forever.

     "You have to jump."

     The words unconsciously come from Curt, seemingly in slow motion as he's reaching across the console to unlatch Owen's seatbelt before his own. They're spinning out, and the car is going to crash at any moment, his survival instinct should be kicking in but everything in him is screaming to get Owen out first. He's shouting something, but the screeching of metal is ringing too loud in his ears with the pounding of his heartbeat prove too loud to make sense even of his own voice. Before Owen can try to take care of his, he's shoving him in the direction of the door, before he's frantically working at his own, fumbling with the latch as Owen's door opens. The rain is louder now somehow, washing out every other noise to the american's ears. The metal is giving way and the fabric is slipping through his fingertips as the seatbelt falls away. A glance to Owen's still open door, and the british agent is mid fall, arms and legs tucked in. A breath and his hand goes to the door handle.

     Time catches back up at a breakneck speed. The back of the car slams violently into a tree and suddenly there is no gravity as he's thrown through the windshield, barely comprehending enough to cover his eyes before impact, and within a moment, he's crashing into the ground. A violent pain rips through his shoulder, his arm, his hip, and the air is ripped violently from his lungs in a single moment. He's vaguely aware of Owen shouting his name as he lays disoriented, choking on the mud invading his mouth and nose, blocking off his airways as he tries to force himself up with his good arm. Dirt grits between his teeth as he forces himself onto his back, flinching as the rain continues to pour down and he forces out shuddering breaths in an attempt to stop his head from spinning.

     An inventory. Dislocated shoulder, broken arm, bruised hip, mild concussion, ringing in his ears. That's only what he's sure of. Owen is still calling his name, but it sounds distant, like it's coming to him through fifty feet of glass. Briefly he remembers sitting at the bottom of a pool, listening to the way the world was different and his mother calling his name from above the surface. It sounds much like that, and briefly he questions if he'll be back in that pool again, seven years old once more.

     A touch shakes him from his thoughts. A hand wiping away the mud still on his face, a light tapping on his face and Owen muttering his name, telling him to wake up. Part of Curt wants to say five more minutes with the cheekiest grin he can manage, but he can sense the concern rolling off of him in droves. Forcing his eyes open despite the weather, he looks up into the dark eyes of his partner, who has dark red smeared across his forehead and rolling in drops down the side of his face.

     "You're bleeding."

     It's the first thing he can manage to say, ignoring his own pains to wipe away some of the red from Owen's face. To make it more familiar despite the dark. It's not as if they've never seen each other bleed before, but it's still disconcerting at times. Owen catches his hand before it reaches his face, managing to crack the smallest of smiles before he kisses Curt's knuckles, bloodied and scratched from the windshield.

     "So are you. You gave me a fright for a second there, darling."

     A glance to the now destroyed car a few feet away, it's only then as a flash of lightning once again illuminates the night that he sees a single headlight approaching from the opposite direction and Curt's gun several yards away, apparently thrown on impact. A glance between Curt and the motorcycle before he scrambles for the gun, as he hasn't found his own since he made his exit. A silent prayer that it will still work even though the barrel was half buried in the mud when he reaches it, he stays crouched, in wait, watching the headlight draw closer- but it doesn't slow as it approaches. Taking aim, he's waiting for them to get a bit closer, to give them payment in kind for what had happened to their own vehicle. A steady hand, a breathe, finger twitching on the finger, the silhouette is all wrong. They're growing closer and he has to make the choice, but they're not slowing down. An exhale and Owen lowers his guard for a moment as the unfortunate civilian passes by, almost thankful that they either take no notice of the wreckage or choose to ignore it.

     Curt's managed to sit up by the time Owen has watched the tail lights of the motorcycle disappear into the distance, and he's trying desperately to get his watch to work, but the display was been smashed open on a rock in his landing, and the electronics fried by the water. It will do them no good. An annoyed sigh leaves the american's lips along with several curses, before Owen offers a hand to help him up.

     "Can you walk, love?"

     "If I say no, does that mean you'll have to carry me?"

     That smile cracks across Curt's face, despite the other agent giving him a look that crossed somewhere between exasperation and annoyance. Grasping his arm, he gets up with a loud groan, having to take a moment to steady himself when he gets upright, warranting a look of concern from Owen that's quickly waved off. Despite the persistent dizziness, and the protest of his body at the motion, he's alright. He's more closely paying attention the limp in Owen's leg, the gash on his forehead, and the terrible looking wounds where fabric gave way when he skidded across the pavement. It's useless to ask if he's okay, not like he can do much to change it, but it doesn't make him any less concerned. A wince as he readjusts his shoulder, and shifts the broken arm. They can both walk, they're both breathing, it's considered a good day. Fantastic even, considering their mission went according to plan, but Owen is still staring, waiting for a response, something a bit less sarcastic than the one previous.

     "I'm fine."

     "Good, we've got a long ways to go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now seems as good a time as any to introduce myself. Hi, my name's Heather and I'm the author of this little fic. I also go by Satan, Stana, Def, and 'you fucking bitch'. I swear those are all said with love (usually). I'm 20, and if you haven't figured it out yet, I am Curtwen trash. I've been getting nothing but lovely feedback from people, and it really does make my day every time I get a nice message or comment on this. If for some reason you just can't get enough of my writing, particularly of Curt and Owen, feel free to message me, as I do roleplay both of them on tumblr and I'm willing to give out the url upon request. If you ever want to ask me a question either about my writing or about myself in general, always feel welcome, I adore you all and I hope you're enjoying this fic, and if you're not I'm sorry this isn't what you were looking for. I do apologize for how long this took to post, but I assure you that chapter four is already plotted and in progress. I would like to make it known, if you have a writing prompt for me (in this fandom or others so long as I'm familiar with it) or you have a character that you'd really like to see come up in this story, feel free to message me. I'm willing to consider almost anything, and am always open to suggestions.
> 
> *Curt's fear of thunder is not entirely unfounded. It actually comes from the first night of Spies Are Forever: Reloaded in Chicago. There was a thunderstorm going on, and Curt ad-libbed a line about being scared of thunder. It may seem flimsy and unnecessary, but personally I found it to be a very humanizing trait  
> **A brief explanation for the delay in getting this posted. I really sincerely apologize for everyone who's been waiting for this. I've had a lot of things happening in my life that have made getting this written/posted difficult. Particularly the nature of this chapter made this difficult as I didn't realize until part way through writing it that it was the anniversary of my parent's car crash which really hit me hard. I will hopefully be updating more frequently in the near future.


	4. Chapter 4

     It's a slow trudge down along the side of the road, heavy footsteps as grass remains slick and gives way to mud. They're leaning on each other. Shivering and cold with numbed hands and blood loss. There's pain, each pretending to be unfazed, slipping on their masks to hide it, clinging to each other when they're losing balance too quickly and depending on their partner to help them get through this endless night. All words are drowned out by the persistence of rain, with Owen gripping Curt's arm a little tighter at every roll of thunder that makes him falter in his movements. It's getting harder though as the night wears on. They may be spies, but they are still men, and their resistance is wearing thin.

     Another shock of light and in the distance a small hovel is visible. A holy grail after hours what feels like decades out in the storm, and the slow trudge that they've been reduced to becomes a bit faster. They remain together, Owen keeping a more firm grip on Curt's arm as his leg protests the more rigorous pace. Another violent blast of wind, ripping through them both, soaked to the bone. It's a small mercy when they've made it to the shack, a shield against the rain and cold. Without intention, Owen presses his back to the wood breathing out a sigh of relief as Curt tests the door. It's luck and weakened wood that leads it to give way.

     A small room, wet with a roof that leaks in places and a small stack of partially dampened wood stacked to one corner. It's dry enough to serve for the night, and both agents strip off their jackets, tossing them off to a dry section of the floor before they set to work to make it a habitable place for the night, another silent routine as they both contain any inkling of their pain so as not to worry the other. While Curt rummages about in a trunk against the far wall for anything that might provide any scrap of warmth, or a change of clothes, something to fend off the beginnings of hypothermia setting in. Even out of the rain and wind that rattles the cheap glass in the windows with each pass and slips through the gaps in swollen and rotting wood, he's still cold.

     Light and heat, soft yet warm erupt from the fireplace as Owen manages to bring about a flame with some of the drier pieces of firewood. Curt looks to his partner then, now illuminated by the fire as he drags a dusty blanket from the depths of the trunk. It's almost admirable, the way that the soaking shirt is rendered sheer, clinging to every well carved muscle and highlighting the curvature of his body. But the admiration ends when he comes to look at Owen's face and notices the lips are tinged blue from hypothermia, and the smearing of red across his forehead and running down onto his neck, staining the collar of his once white shirt a muddy combination of red and brown. It's set in worse than he thought.

     "You need to get your shirt off."

     It's not so much a request as it is a command, as Curt takes a hold of the hem of Owen's shirt, and begins to haul it upwards despite the British spy's protests. Even with grit teeth and determination, the protest of a broken fore arm and dislocated shoulder are too much to bear and he's forced to release with a hiss of pain, eliciting a look of concern from Owen. A moment before he finishes hauling it up over his head and tossing it off to the side, and he's looking at his partner, truly looking at him. Out of the darkness and the disorientation of the rain, he can now see the misshapen silhouette of Curt's shoulder, and trailing down to the swollen forearm, and he swears quietly under his breath as he reaches for the knife that had managed to stay in its holster despite the crash. He begins to cut away the fabric to reveal the scarred and pale skin, and allow the injuries to be better dealt with without the aggravation that would come with trying to remove it with traditional means.

     "Jesus, Curt. You should've said something about this hours ago. I could have at least fixed your shoulder before we left the crash site."

     Owen has always been the more responsible of the two, in more ways than one. There's a pang of regret from Curt, both for not telling Owen sooner, and for emptying his flask when he did. It might have been enough to remove the blue from his partner's lips, or taken the edge off the pain. Another hiss as Owen places his hands on the shoulder and arm for what's certain to be a less that pleasant experience, but it's not a hiss of pain.

     "Your hands are like ice."

     That's enough to draw out a small smile from Carvour. Even as Curt scowls, he can't help the bit of a smirk that starts to creep in for a moment. It could be any other night. Any hotel room, after any mission and far away from a barely held together shack dripping in places with wind rolling through intermittently. At least they have the warmth, and each other. All in all the crash could have ended up far worse. A head wound, broken bone, the blood, they've walked away with far worse. On one particularly bad mission, where everything that could have gone wrong, and it ended with dragging Curt's unconscious body through the rubble, praying that he would even manage to wake up. Something that wouldn't happen for three days after, in a secure safe house, warm and with proper doctors. Still, over their years of service they've picked up at least some bits and pieces of field triage and first aid.

     "Yes well, as long as we're stating the obvious here, this is going to hurt a bit, love."

     "I know, just do-"

     A sharp cry of pain as Owen drives the joint back into it's socket with surprising force and accuracy. Even as he cries out, Curt tries his best to suppress the noise and maintain a mask of calmness. As if feigning a lack of pain will make any difference in the situation. Gritting his teeth once more he can still taste the dirt between them as he rolls his tender shoulder, despite the shift it causes in the break. It isn't pleasant, but at least he's regained some of the mobility in it. With that now dealt with, he's taking a closer look at his partner, taking in the rather alarming signs he'd missed at first glance over, even through a haze of pain.

     "Ideally we should be getting a splint on that arm of yours, but we're at a bit of a loss for supplies, think you can tough it out 'til morning?"

     "I'll be fine, you need to be more worried about getting your pants off."

     Before Owen even has time to respond, Curt is already working on his own with a wince as the broken bone shifts once again.

     "Curt, I hardly think now is the time for-"

     "Cyanosis." The american cuts him off before he can even finish his sentence, slipping off his belt and tossing it to the side before crouching to rid himself of his shoes. "Your lips and fingernails, they're turning blue. You need body heat, and there's no one else around to give it. Now get your damn pants off, Owen."

     A moment of hesitation seems to stretch into an eternity before Curt looks back up to meet Owen's eyes, and while there's a sternness in them, there's also a measure of concern, something the american rarely deigns to show. A sigh, and Owen capitulates, quickly disrobing down to his underwear, before joining his partner on the floor with the dusty blanket. It's not romantic in any form. A mess of limbs, Curt's seeming to near burn with heat while Owen seemed to be carved from the ice itself. Curt's mass and build had always made it easier to conserve body heat, and while his temperature often ran higher than his partners, this is the first time it has ever really scared him. Arms wrapped around the british man, he does his best not to focus on his pallor, or the blue hue of his lips and nails, from the violent cold. Nor the way that Owen is silently failing to repress his shivering, he wishes he had more to offer in the way of heat. At least a set of warm dry clothes to put him in. Food, alcohol, anything to raise his frightening temperature. 

     "You know when I said I wanted you to stay-"

     Curt speaks softly, running his hand over Owen's skin to try to create some sort of friction or heat. Anything to try to raise his circulation for even a moment. Owen can't see his face, so he doesn't bother forcing a smile, instead resting his forehead against Owen's shoulder, closing his eyes for a moment as he readjusts his pained limbs.

     "Not quite what you imagined, is it?"

     Owen does smile, at least a little bit, trying to crack a joke even if it's at his own expense. He's well aware of how worried Curt is for his health, and in a way it's almost sweet, but he can feel the tension in his muscles, and the near imperceptible twitches and shivers and the shallowness of breath. The way that he's all too wrapped up in those fears. If the weather wasn't dangerously close to freezing, Owen might have called it unfounded.

     "No, this part I imagined. But I thought it would be in a decent hotel, and the hypothermia is a bit of a shock."

     That manages to get a laugh out of Owen, but it's weak. Little more than a quiet echo of itself, and there's that worry again. Creeping into Curt's thoughts and sinking into it with claws and teeth, forcing him to question if his partner might have difficulty making it through the night. They're both exhausted, and even as Owen's temperature seems to rise, there's still fear. Owen begins to drift off long before Curt's troubled mind can come to ease. Instead he remains awake well into the night as the rain continues to pound on the roof. It's only when he's certain that Owen is deep asleep and well out of the woods that he dares to free himself from the tangle to add more wood to the fire.

     As the rain slows and finally comes to an end, the very first pale rays of dawn are beginning to slip in through the cracks, bringing with it the cool air of a new day. A troubled and light sleep falls over Curt, but it doesn't last for long, and he awakens to the dim light of morning. It's still cold, but not quite as awful as the night prior. Owen still sleeps as the american frees himself once again, shivering at the cool air as it bites at his exposed skin. Now in the light he can search their surroundings more thoroughly, and goes back to the trunk that he'd dug the blanket out of the previous night in hopes of finding clothes. Their own are still laying in soggy piles upon the floor, and he knows that Owen is desperately in need of something dry to wear. Even though he'd regained most of his color in the night, he isn't willing to take chances. It's pure luck that he manages to find some clothing, and though it's several sizes too large, it should fit him with a bit of creativity. The unfortunate nature of the matter was that there was only one set of clothing that might fit either of them.

     Given few other options, the american recovers his wet things off the floor ringing out the excess water when he can. He even goes so far as to take Owen's shirt, given that his own is in shreds on the floor, and hauls it up over his head with a suppressed yelp of pain at the shift of the bone. He'll survive it, he's been through worse. A look outside tells him that it's near ten in the morning, and they need to get moving once again if they want to reach Josefov by nightfall. Kneeling beside his partner he gently shakes him, trying to wake him gently at first, but when he doesn't stir initially he starts to worry. The shaking becomes more violent, and his name is first tripping off his lips at first but quickly rises to shouts as the paranoia and panic sets in.

     "Sod off, Curt, I'm sleeping." Owen groans as he rolls away from the hand on shaking him and throws an arm over his eyes in a way that causes Curt to simultaneously sigh with relief and exasperation.

     "It's time to wake up, we've got a long way to go if we're making it back to Prague tonight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept my super long chapter that mostly features shirtless/pantsless Curt and Owen as my apology and a token of my gratitude for everyone who was patient with how long it took me to post chapter three and continues to be patient with me. ~Heather.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're squeamish about broken bones or bodily horror, I'd recommend that you skip from the line 'he died' to ' '. I unfortunately do my best to be fairly accurate with my depictions of situations, and with all the fact checking I did, these are the unfortunate realities of what happens when you go more than 12 hours without setting, or at the very least splinting a broken bone. There's some nice stuff at the end though that I hope makes up for it. I also hope that the fact that this chapter more than doubled the length of this fic makes up for the obscenely long wait. It probably should have been split into 2-3 chapters, but oh well, I hope you all enjoy.

     "You're wearing my shirt."

     It's not an accusation, or malicious, just an observation as Owen glances in Curt's direction while cuffing the too long pants that don't fit quite right. The dry clothes are uncomfortable at best, made from an uncomfortable woolen material that still smells vaguely of the dust that had been trapped in the trunk along side it. Scratchy and irritating, it's still warm, making it well worth it even as his limbs are swimming in the excessive fabric, with pants held up from a tightly tied belt about the waist. It's almost like a child playing dress up in his father's clothes. A shrug from the american as he slides into his own pants, ignoring the chill it brings to his skin with the residual moisture.

     "You took a knife to mine."

     He gestures distractedly in the direction of the scraps of cloth on the floor as he reaches to retrieve his belt. A wince when he flexes his hand, aggravating the swollen flesh around his broken arm, a soft groan of pain that causes Owen to frown and try to look more closely at the injury by the light of day, but Curt shies away from his eyes.

     "How are you holding up?"

     "I'm not the one with a fracture in my forearm, am I love?"

     The rapid fire response serves to be enough to quiet the American, and make their short task of collecting the traces of their presence a quiet one. There's a mutual worry, each of them trying to gauge the other's condition despite the stubborn nature that seemed to come as part of being a spy. Defenses are up, and they're both trying to mask the instincts that tell them to look closer, to find the weak spots. Another sharp wince, and Owen catches the pained expression before Curt can mask it.

     "Let me see, maybe I can do something about it."

     "I'm fine."

     "You're obviously not, Curt, just let me have a look."

     As Owen advances towards him, Curt flinches away, trying to hide the weakness from his partner in spite of himself. He hasn't been able to properly use his hand since the night before. He turns too sharply and without meaning, it makes impact with a wooden wardrobe. The cry torn from his lips is unwilling, trying to catch his own scream in his throat to no avail.

     He can't hide this by the light of day, not with Owen now clear of mind. A hand rests on the opposite arm, and finally, Curt has to let his partner see. Gentle hands barely brush over the flesh, examining the misshapen arm and the discoloration. It's bad. It should have been set and splinted hours ago, but it had been too dark, he'd been too cold, and he's kicking himself for not realizing just how bad it was. If it was only a fracture he might have managed, but this- this can't be left alone.

     "This is bad Curt, this is really bad."

     The concern is real, and while he'd managed to catch a glance of it by the dim light of the growing fire the night before, he wouldn't have let this be if he had realized how terrible the injury was. The moment he manages to catch Curt's eyes, he knows that he knew- that he knew the night before but chose to keep it concealed. Anything else, something less serious, he might have hit him just for the stupidity required to keep this hidden from him. But he knows why he did it, he'd been hypothermic, not thinking straight. There was every chance that if he'd tried to set it last night that Curt would be far worse off than he is now. A sloppy setting might be worse than no setting at all. He needs to reduce the swelling somehow, and he scans the surroundings for anything that might be of use.

     There's a soft curse for the lack of supplies as he guides Curt to sit on the edge of the trunk before he starts to collect the wet clothes from the floor. The other almost starts to question, or protest that the agent is making far too big of a deal out of this, but a single look is enough to quiet him, as Owen first places his own jacket outside the shack in the still lightly frosted grass before returning to stoke the fire. A final action as he collect's Curt's jacket from the floor, still wet and cool, perhaps not cool enough, not ideal, but it will have to do for the moment. He approaches his partner, and carefully begins to wrap the wound in the damp fabric around the swelling in absence of proper medications.

     Incredulous, Curt is about to make some sort of comment, but Owen swiftly interrupts before he can manage a single syllable.

     "Try not to move your arm- I've only had to do this once before, and that was three years ago. Even had some of the proper medications then, but this it going to hurt darling. I'm trying to take down the swelling as much as I can, that's what the jacket's for. It won't do much, but it's better than nothing. We'll have to make sure that we splint it afterwards."

     He's moved away again, producing his knife to slice the remains of the torn shirt to finer strips, laying them out before the fireplace to dry them for the latter procedure. Moving then to the wood pile, he's looking for pieces of wood to serve for the purposes of this, but his task is interrupted when Curt rises, though careful to keep the fabric in place over the wound for the sake of the minor relief it allows.

     "What do you mean afterwards? We're burning daylight, we need to get moving. We were expected in Josefov last night, we should have left already. If you insist on playing doctor, just get it over with. Cynthia's going to be pissed enough about this already."

     A pause, a soft sigh, and for once Owen is the one avoiding Curt's gaze. It's a medical procedure, he's done it before, but it's not a pleasant one, especially without anesthetic. If it wasn't absolutely necessary, maybe he could- no. He has to do this, for Curt's own good. Tact is hard pressed to be found as he tries to find the kindest way to break the news to him. Break the news, what an unfortunate line of thought. With grim expression, he looks to his partner, and it's not an easy thing to say. Not to someone he cares so deeply about. Inhaling the chilled air, he finally has to break the silence.

     "If you ever want to use that hand properly again, if you want to stay a spy- we're going to have to break your arm again."

    Curt looks at him for a moment as though he's waiting for some sort of punchline, but it doesn't come. Instead, Owen looks away, moves the fabric strips by the fire, now holding the wood that will serve for the splint. Even faced away, he can feel Curt's eyes on him, the tension hanging heavy in the air, almost suffocating in the way it clings to him, filling his lungs until it's near impossible.

     "It can wait until we get to Prague. There'll be doctors there they can-"

     "No they can't Curt." Owen turns back to him, and his voice is more stern than before, more demanding. In the span of a single breath, he's crossed the small shack and taken hold of the shorter agent's shoulders, forcing him not to look away. "I wasn't joking when I said it was bad. We should have dealt with it last night. If it's not broken now and set properly, you'll likely lose any chance of it healing the way it should. Along with your chances of being a spy, and likely any chance we have of seeing each other again. I know you don't want to do this Curt, and it's going to hurt-"

     One hand moves from his shoulder to his hair and he leans his forehead to touch Curt's. He needs him, more than words can say, and as much as the thought of bringing him pain hurts him a life without him seems a far harder to swallow. A salted pill, bitter and unneeded if he can only manage to convince the other to extend his trust only this much further.

     "-I don't want to lose you Curt, and I'm asking you. Trust me. I promise, I wouldn't do it if it wasn't absolutely necessary. Do you trust me?"

     Another one of those pauses that spans an eternity, and Mega's eyes are shut, refusing to relinquish his thoughts to his partner for this moment, debating the depths of trust. Owen has never led him astray before, he's even saved his life, he owes him his trust. This man has seen him at his most vulnerable, seen into the depths of him and taken care not to fracture his fragile soul. Slowly, he opens his eyes, stares into Owen's pleading amber ones. There's unspoken desperation that fills the void between them, begging louder than any words.

     "I trust you..."

     A breath that Owen didn't realize he'd been holding in expels gently. A gentle press of his lips to Curt's. A preemptive apology, a promise, a declaration of mutual trust in the fraction of a moment that they meet. All too quickly, and with a measurable reluctance, Owen releases his thrall, fingertips lingering in his hair and on his shoulder before he turns and goes out the door to retrieve the jacket that was left in the cold. An involuntary shiver crawls down his spine as his hands curl in the chilled fabric, the weight of the realization of what he has to do to his best friend, his lover, begins to settle its enormity upon his shoulders. Hands tremble for only a moment, before he reenters the shack with a forced placid expression, so as not to alarm his partner.

     A warmer silence falls between them for a moment as the older agent reaches for Curt's good hand, and entwines their fingers as he leads him back to the steamer trunk. They'll have to do this soon, especially if they mean to reach the city by nightfall. Curt will need a proper cast, real treatment, possibly even antibiotics. A stream of unending thoughts and worries- he's always been the worrier for all of his swaggering confidence. To be the prepared one is to anticipate all possibilities and expect the worst. Maybe Curt trusts him, but does he trust himself? That's the question that perhaps he should have asked before he rallied Curt to agree. Perhaps it's selfish to want him so badly that he's willing to try to fix him now. A whirlpool of worry that perhaps Curt can sense, or maybe he catches the slight tremble of his hands out of the corner of his eye.

      "You said you've done this before, care to explain?"

      The question catches Owen slightly off guard, as he's never been much of one to dwell upon the past. Quietly, his hands work to carefully remove the jacket surrounding his swollen forearm, debating where exactly the story is meant to start. The heat of summer, shouting in the distance, he can still feel the dirt between clenched teeth, the toughened leather beneath his palms- the girl screaming. The silence persists, trying to find the thread of the tale, to begin, to reveal what so few know. When he does begin to speak again, his speech is careful, deliberate, much like the way his hands move to adjust the cool fabric against Curt's injury.

      "Well- I was in Bosnia, trying to escort..."

     Already the words trip, start to become more complex, the story has too many threads, too many secrets, all tangled together. Recollection comes at a price, and it's not sure it's one he wants to pay, but for Curt's sake he's willing to continue the tale.

     "...a scientist, and his daughter. They were being offered sanctuary in exchange for information. The scientist broke his arm in the escape, and much like you, didn't tell me until several hours after the fact. We were in the middle of jungle, and didn't have much in the way of supplies, so we had to make do. A scientist unable to use one of his hands- well I didn't want to risk his being sent back. He was more concerned with his daughter making it to safety than he was with the thought of his own pain, but we were able to carve out a moment to fix it. It was nothing like this- we had to rush in the dark, there wasn't time for numbing of any sort, and his daughter had to stand on look out. The only thing he had to bite down on was my shoulder, I've still got a bit of a scar there from that."

     The soft beginnings of a laugh for a moment that well in his chest, and dies as it begins to reach his lips. He remembers why she was screaming now, he remembers that night with such crystalline clarity- abruptly he rises from his place beside Curt to gather the splinting supplies from beside the fire, the fabric now dried, and finally Curt's belt from the floor, where it had yet to be recovered.

     "We should take care of your arm. Like you said, we need to get moving."

     "What happened to them?"

     He doesn't have to say it aloud for Curt to catch the hesitation, the twinge of guilt. A year ago he would have never guessed, never ventured to make anything resembling a polite comment. Even now, he wonders if he's gone too far, pressed past the limits of what he should, but he can tell that it bothers him. The abrupt shift in topics, the stutter of his step at that question. Owen looks at him for a moment, before he's unwrapping the arm with care, deceptively gentle touch for the procedure that's about to happen. A weighted pause, and he starts to undo his own belt to make sure that his arm won't shift in the process.

     "Ask me again when we're done with this."

     He's avoiding the topic, and they both know it as Owen feeds the belts together to make a strap long enough to encircle the trunk and Curt's arm with it, gesturing for him to sit on the floor beside it, repositioning the arm as necessary before he straps it firmly into place, and a block is slid just beneath the break.

     "Owen."

     He looks to Curt, and matches his gaze, hands lock together one more time, and the younger squeezes his hand for a moment. A silent reassurance of trust, before he repeats his question.

     "What happened to them?"

     Looking directly into Curt's eyes, it's hard to decline a response. Putting it off made it simple, as it would be likely with the pain, Curt wouldn't manage to remember. Not until later, when he'd have had the chance to make certain that he can deflect it. Spin a new ending to a hopelessly tragic tale. Hard swallow of the lump in his throat, it's another salted pill. 

     "He died. Not because of the break, that was starting to heal. We were on our way out of the country, almost to Croatia. I had a transport arranged for us there-"

     A smaller piece of wood is picked up from the pile of supplies, turned over in his palm for a moment before he offers it to the other with a sad sort of half-smile.

     "-you'll want to bite down on this, love- it was the middle of the night, and we thought we'd shaken the trail days before, but we were being cautious."

     Moving to the other side of the trunk, he glances to Curt, makes sure he has the wood firmly beneath his teeth before he begins the press down on Curt's wrist with surprising force. No verbal warning, just the violent force, and he can hear the violent curses muffled by the makeshift gag, the pained noises, but not the snap yet. The bone has yet to give, and so the story continues. An attempt to assuage the pain, to distract for lack of anesthetics.

     "There were gunshots, voices in the distance." His own voice grows louder now to be heard over the sounds of Curt's pain, and he wants so badly to relieve it, but it's the only way he can help. "I told him to stay inside, but he refused. By the time I took out the hostiles, he'd caught two bullets to the chest. I couldn't do anything to stop it. He asked me to promise him something as he was dying, so I promised-"

      **Snap**. The bone breaks once again, a hollow sounding thing like a matchstick, but it's pale in comparison to the howl of pain. Owen can't bring himself to look at his partner yet, not knowing that the pain isn't over yet. The worst is yet to come, and he knows it. His hands move, discarding the block from beneath the break before taking firm grip of the wrist, the opposite settling on the trembling bicep to keep him still. It's not an easy thing to do, to inflict this pain on his lover, but he has no other choice. Somebody has to do it, and it's too late to turn back. Reaffirming his grip, he steals a solitary glance to him, and immediately regrets it. The tension of his jaw, the way his eyes are shut tight, they're nothing compared to the glint of the light off the tears clinging to his cheeks, and the soft whimper around the wood, unintended but there all the same. There aren't words for how difficult it is not to wipe them away, draw him in close, and assure him that the pain is done. That the worst is over- but he knows better than that. It would be cruel to lie to him like that.

     "I promise him that I would get his daughter to safety."

     Without warning once again, he thrusts the bone back into position as quickly as he can manage, if he's lucky, he might manage it on the first attempt. A howl of pain wells in Curt's chest as the tendons stretch and strain, with muscles attempting to shift to accommodate the bone. It doesn't slide into place quite right, and he has to try again, and again- managing it only after the fifth attempt. Rapidly, the british agent works to splint the injury, keeping it straight as he ties and winds the scraps of fabric to hold it in place to ensure they won't have to do this again. The strap comes undone, and Owen is there at his side, wiping away the tears with gentle pressure as he pulls him close.

     "I'm sorry Curt, I'm so sorry. It's over now, I promise. The worst is over."

     The weight of him leaned into his chest is equal parts a comfort and guilt inducing. The trembling form of Curt Mega is not unfamiliar to him, but it is the first time that he's found himself to be the sole cause of it. At least to the best of his knowledge. Arms are gently placed around him, careful not to aggravate the splint. A soft sigh of reassurances as he keeps him close, tries not to let every whimper of pain feel so much like knives in his heart. It had to be done, and perhaps Curt will thank him later, but it's the farthest thought from his mind at the moment.

      Quiet is something that falls over them slowly, as the sounds of pain slowly begin to subside, and while Owen is fairly certain that he's far from painless, they have a ways to go before night falls. What should have been a simple trek is now complicated with the daylight they've lost, and the severity of Curt's injuries- they need to find there way to Josefov sooner rather than later.

     "We have to get moving, love, we've lost most of the day already. Do you think you can manage for a bit?"

     A beat, as the arms slacken and Curt pauses to take inventory of his senses, attempting to ignore the horrific shooting pains through his forearm, or the difficulty in flexing his hand. It all hurts. His arm, his jaw, his chest, but he forces a nod. A spy is a spy, and a spy has to get the job done. Forcing himself to rise enough to extricate himself from his partner's grip, he nods again, though he's not certain whether it's meant to be a reassurance to Owen or himself.

     "Yeah." His voice comes out hoarse, soft, and it breaks Owen's heart to hear it like that but it's progress.

     Rising to his feet, Owen offers a hand to assist him in getting off the floor. A pause, before the taller reaches out to him, threads his hand into his hair, and leans his forehead against Curt's once again. He needs him to know, to understand.

     "I'm so sorry, Curt. If there had been another-"

     "It's okay." He interrupts softly, his voice lacking in its usual hard edge. There's a softness in his eyes, a measure of vulnerability in them that's rarely seen. "I said I trusted you. I meant it."

     Owen shivers as he steps out into the chilled air, and the sun is lower in the sky than it has any right to be. Winter is fast approaching and with it the days have grown shorter in their time. His jacket had been sacrificed to create a makeshift sling for the protesting American, but he remained firm in his insistence, What he failed to inform Curt was that he had no plans of merely walking the remaining distance. Not with Curt's arm being the way it is and the looming threat of another hypothermic night- they'll be seeking alternative methods of transportation, it's only a matter of opportunity.

     They walk in near silence for the better part of an hour, a conservation of strength- something that the shorter is sorely in need of. Without meaning, he begins to lean on Owen for support, much of his energy sapped by the earlier procedure. It's a duty which he accepts without comment, lest his already wounded pride take another blow. Curt Mega's overblown ego was rarely in need of tending, and could often afford the hits it might take from a gentle ribbing, but this is not the time nor the place for such a thing. He merely loops an arm around his partner's waist to aid in support as they trudge onwards.

     Finally, the moment that he's been waiting for, the sound of an engine, rubber grit against asphalt. Their ticket to reaching Josefov before the night falls. A glance to Curt, making sure he's capable of supporting himself for a few moments before he removes his arm from his partner's waist and steps onto the edge of the road to flag down the car before it can pass them by.

     Curt stands away from him, feet planted firmly in the overgrown grass, in part to allow Carvour to work his trademark charm upon the driver but he's not entirely certain that he can manage to walk any sizable distance without support. He takes note of the fact that the car is traveling in the wrong direction, but he's learned over time that Owen is nothing if not persuasive. For a moment, he loses himself to the memories as a wave of dizziness and exhaustion hits without warning. Eyes close for what feels like a brief moment, only to be startled when he feels Owen's hand rest on his shoulder. There's no missing the concern there, and he knows that he still feels guilty about the events of the morning, and even of the night before. He might attempt to offer consolation if he could summon the strength.

     "It's time to go, love. The car's waiting."

     A numb sort of nod, and his partner's arm is back around his waist to lead him to the passenger seat. He might have fought more when Owen buckled him in- _he's_ _not_ _a_ _child_ _after_ _all_ \- but the limited use of his left hand makes it near impossible to manage on his own. Owen takes his place in the driver's seat and skillfully turns the car around in a fluid motion before they're speeding down the road towards their destination. It's far too easy to sink back into the seats, let the heat seep into his bones, and relax the aching muscles and bones that have been protesting since the crash. Several minutes pass before a question arises that he feels all too guilty for not asking earlier on as he glances to the back seat, only to realize that it's empty.

     "What happened to the driver?"

      The expression on Owen's face is difficult to read for a long moment, before he glances to the rearview mirror, and finally back to Curt.

     "Desperate times- He'll wake up in an hour, if that, he's only an hour's walk from the nearest town. Besides- he was rude. He'll live, and hopefully learn some manners. We'll be at the rendezvous long before they can report it missing."

     Sighing, Curt leans his head back against the seat. The irony isn't lost on him, that any other mission the roles would be reversed, and he can almost hear Owen trying to convince him that rude behavior doesn't justify the theft of a car, but he's right. Desperate times. Cautiously, he looks at his partner as he focuses on the rode, watching for any signs of the return of his symptoms the night before. While there's relief that he looks better than the night before, the shivering doesn't pass him by, nor does the dried blood at his temple. The wound itself hadn't been bad, but he's still wary that he might have sustained a concussion. A heavy breath and he returns his eyes to the road.

     It's another hour before they reach the border, filled with stiff small talk, not out of discomfort but a need to somehow fill the silence. They're only a few minutes from the rendezvous when the American speaks again.

     "You never finished your story."

     "Beg pardon?"

     "The scientist- and the girl. You never finished... what happened to the girl?"

     Owen's eyes flit to Curt, who's watching intently out of the window rather than facing him, and he's almost questioning if he'd imagined the question. Earlier on, he'd been certain that he would forget to ask, let the story rest in the past where it was meant to be. A soft sigh as he turns down another narrow street, watching for the hotel where they'd meant to meet their contact the day before.

     "I took her back to the agency and garnered asylum for her- I haven't seen her since."

     There's an underlying guilt in his tone, a sort of discomfort that's grown since that day. He knows he should have done more now, but at the time, it seemed to be simple fulfillment of his duties. Silence greets this confession, but it speaks enough to fill volumes as he finally spots the hotel, and slides into a parking space with relative ease.

     "Owen-"

     He starts, his tone softer than the other anticipated, but he cuts himself off as he looks to his partner and catches his eye. Another violently charged moment, where Curt desperately wishes he could do something so simple as reach out to hold his hand, but the affections must be reserved. They are no longer together, they're merely associates- associates who have to face the difficulty of explaining not only their absence, but the lack of communication, and finally the injuries.

     A deliberate distance is maintained between them as they enter and Owen inquires to the concierge about retrieving the keys to their room which had been left behind. Leaning his hips back against the desk, and only then notices the conspicuous figures across the lobby, both reading newspapers printed in english, and facing the desk as well. Gently, he elbows him, jutting his chin in their direction, and it's then that the papers lower, and Curt almost regrets drawing attention.

     The furious face of Cynthia Houston glares at him from across the lobby, with the far from content Russell Patton- and it could hardly mean anything pleasant if the heads of both the secret service and MI-6 had made the journey, and as they rise, he's trying to stammer out an explanation, but a single glare from Cynthia is enough to silence him.

     "I don't want to hear any of your bullshit Mega, get yourself cleaned up and get your shit together. We can discuss what a fucking failure you are after that-" A glance to Owen, a partial smile, before she looks back to Curt with unparalleled anger and coldness. "I didn't think you could be a bigger fuck up than you already were, but apparently you find it fucking fascinating to prove me wrong. Now get your ass to a goddamn hospital before you manage to fuck yourself up anymore than you already have."

     He wants to protest, but he's silenced with a single glance. A brief look to Owen and Russell who stepped aside to have a seemingly far more civil conversation, before he capitulates to Cynthia's will.

     It's nearly three hours before he returns to the hotel, most of which was spent seeming to test the limits of Cynthia's colorful vocabulary. The thought of Owen waiting for him at the room is the only thing that staves off the malcontent brewing in his thoughts. If they're lucky, they might manage a few hours of personal time, a few days even. Medical leave might turn out to be a minor blessing if they can manage discretion. The key clicks home into the lock, and he stumbles only slightly when he enters the room. Anesthetic, not whiskey for once, and he's smiling ever so slightly when he sees Owen perched on the bedspread. That is until he notices the familiar envelope beside him. The same sort he's seen far too many times. The expression fades to one intended to be neutral, but it fails to mask the disappointment that seeps through.

     "MI6 wants you back tomorrow, don't they?"

     There's no missing the bitterness in Curt's voice as he leans against the wall opposite the British agent, studies him where he sits on the edge of the bed. _His_ bed, in fact, and he might make some comment about the least he can do if he's not going to stay is sit on his own, but Curt holds his tongue about it. What good will making him move do? Instead he refuses to make eye contact, trying to take in every detail he can while he's still there. Who knows when he'll see him again, so he has to memorize the pieces of him when he has a chance because he changes. He always changes. His hair is longer than their last mission, and stubble on the cheeks that he usually keeps so well shaven, was it there last night? Is he growing it out? Or was he merely too concerned for his well being to deal with it? It's only a cast, only a broken bone, he shouldn't have been worried. It's selfish to think that, to think that his actions, his health, have any effect on Owen Carvour's thought process, but he still believes.

     Owen starts to rise from the bed, disrupting the halo of light that had fallen so perfectly around his dark hair from the window, but Curt doesn't move, instead lowers his gaze to the floor so he won't have to meet his partner's gaze. He knows what he's going to say, what he has to say, and it only deepens the scowl on his face. Why bother to say anything when he's just going to leave again? A moment hangs between them, heavy with everything they won't say, everything they can't say. It seems to be an eternity before he feels the fingertips under his chin, coaxing his gaze upwards to look the other dead in the eyes, scowl still firm but softening from even this simple action. How to look him in the eyes and deny him understanding, it has always been the question without a real answer. Somehow the moment of silence speaks louder than any words that might pass between them, a battle of wills to say the least.

     "You want me to stay."

     He says it because he knows it's true, stating the obvious as if it changes the circumstances. The American steels his jaw in response, mute as he continues to match his gaze unflinchingly. There are words welling on the tip of his tongue, but he's not sure what they are. A complex uncomfortable weight on his chest that makes everything else go out of focus. An alien feeling that's parasitic in the way that it feeds off of all of the uncertainty, off all the discomfort, even now he can feel it. Burning hot and heavy in his heart and in his head, he doesn't speak for fear of exactly what might spill forth. Especially not now, when Owen's eyes are locked so firmly with his own. A soft exhale from the brit, and his hand travels from Curt's chin down to his chest, splaying his hand across it, feeling the warmth beneath the thin of fabric. He blinks before looking down to it, but Curt stays staring at the taller agent's face, trying to search out whatever it is he's got lurking just beneath the surface.

     "You know that I love you, Curt, it's not like I want to go."

     Dark eyes flicker up to meet green ones, and there's another heavy pause. _Oh_. Not a sad thing, just surprise. Neither of them has actually said that before, not out loud, not to each other. Until now, its been a simple enough task to assume some sort of anonymity, or disavow any knowledge of their illicit meetings. What's always been grey, undefined, suddenly comes to shocking and startling clarity. Beneath his palm, Owen can feel the stutter and jump of his partner's heart at that revelation, despite the seemingly placid expression.

     The silence persists for what feels like centuries, before slowly, Curt's uncasted hand moves to the side of Owen's face, and back into his hair, curling into the dark locks. For a moment his lips part, and it seems as if he's about to return the sentiment but instead, he pulls the agent closer and presses his lips to his partner's. It's easier than dislodging that burning heavy thing from his chest. He can feel Owen's hand curl in the fabric, lock him there in the moment and refuse to let him leave. The kiss lingers, and they stay against the wall, a locked door separating them from the world, their self contained existence. A moment when they must break for the sake of air, and their lips hardly separate, still brushing when Curt breathes the words.

     "Please stay."

     A quiet plea for something akin to mercy, something to keep him tethered to this plane, something to quell the ache of the burning heat, and it's the taller agent's turn to answer not through words, but action. The hand curled in Curt's shirt tightens and becomes more firm, and their lips come back together. It's more aggressive than before. Hungrier. They're fumbling and stumbling as they detach themselves from the wall, a mess of affection and needs. Shirts come off in a mess of limbs, with Curt's catching on his cast, a source of minor frustration until the elder lowers his lips to the american's pulse point and causes him to lose all semblance of coherent thought. It's all flesh and fabric, sharp angles counteracted with soft curves. All contradictions without explanation, sometimes words aren't needed. Only actions. Only sharp breaths and soft sighs, treasuring these moments that belong only to them, free of the world beyond the locked door.

     They have brought new meaning to this act, Curt feels, something more than sex. Something deeper, something with more of a connection. Making love. The term he's heard off hand springs to mind and he chokes it down hard, lets the fire consume it and burn all the hotter for it. Laying between the sheets, they stay there, and the casual contact is all too much and yet not enough at the same time. The silence looms over them, intimidating in its immense presence. Owen ventures the courage to break it first, muttering softly into the space between them.

     "I meant what I said, love."

     A small smirk from curt and he's about to make some sort of vulgar comment until he speaks once more.

     "I love you, Curt."

     "Oh."

     The world falls out of his mouth faster than he can stop it, not an angry tone, just surprised. Like he's been told it'll be raining when he was expecting sun. Sex is easier than this, than trying to force out words when he's not entirely certain that it's the proper name for the burning weight sitting there in his chest, and he can tell that wasn't quite the reaction the other was expecting. I love you. He knows how he's supposed to react, but it's all lodged in his chest, in his throat, halting on the tip of his tongue. He's said it before, but he's never felt it until-

     "I didn't say it because I wanted to hear you say it back, I said it because I meant it. And I thought you should know."

     Slowly, Owen's hand reaches, searches beneath the covers and threads with Curt's, instinctively the younger gives his hand a soft squeeze. A reassurance. A lifeline. In some ways, the older expected this. This sort of non response that while perhaps not ideal is much more characteristic of the Curt he knows and loves.  And he does love him. Maybe he hadn't meant for it to come out at that moment, in that way, but he means it. They've never been the type for casual pillow talk. Usually one is scurrying to replace their clothes to report to their superiors, the way he should be right now, but _perhaps_ , he decides, _MI-6 can spare him just this once,_ especially considering what he'll have to tell Curt about histalks with Cynthia and Russell. 

     "What does this mean- for or us?"

     A surprisingly profound thought that the american manages to voice despite a chokehold of worry staying steadfast at his throat. As if asking might make Owen take those wonderful words back- at least he believes them to be, he's not entirely certain yet. If they're enough to give Owen reason to stay for once, to stay tangled in this mess of limb and flesh, then they can't be all that terrible. The brit chuckles softly as he looks to Curt, before bringing his free hand to the other's cheek with a soft smile.

     "It means whatever you want it to mean, love."

     A lingering moment of silence, before the american untangles himself only enough to reach into his bedside table, and produce a flask, eliciting another chuckle from Owen as he takes a long swig before offering it. A kiss buzzing with the freshly consumed whiskey, and they have to break for air again, hands in slow motion as the flask is relegated to the table once more.

     "What if it means I want you to stay?"

     "I'll stay, I promise."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earlier at that day, while Curt is still at the hospital.

     Some people would call Cynthia Houston a bitch, even a cunt at times, but these are words that never bothered her. They are titles that she embraces with pride. She didn't become director of the CIA by being _nice_.

     Click. Click. Spark. A lighter is brought to the end of the cigarette as she glances over the file of secret agent Curt Mega. She is many things, but not an idiot, she's more than aware of his illicit affair with Owen Carvour, what sort of director would she be if she wasn't aware of such a significant detail? If she had any sort of choice in the matter, Curt would never be made aware of the subtle protections and shielding she provides him. It's hard not to recognize the fact that since being partnered with Carvour his track record has only improved. Owen is nothing if not a foil to Curt's unorthodox and at times reckless methodologies. His personal life isn't something she concerns herself with, so long as it doesn't interfere with his work. For all his fuck ups, he's an outstanding agent, so what if he takes men to bed? While the world at large might condemn such a relationship, Cynthia couldn't give less of a damn as long as he isn't spilling state secrets as part of his pillow talk with that elusive british bastard. The least he can do is commit to the treason and finally come around to working for the land of the free.

     A long drag off her cigarette as she contemplates.The tryst has undoubtedly been beneficial to Mega's sanity, but these disappearances are getting out of hand. If Curt hadn't removed his tracker and turned it off before that damned crash, then maybe they wouldn't have sent a recovery team miles from the crash site when they hadn't arrived. Perhaps she wouldn't have caught a red eye jet to deal with the consequences of the possibly taken agents on an unofficial mission with the cooperation of two global superpowers. The wreckage had found tires shot out, parts of a broken tracker, and a clearly ransacked car. The carved up seats she had assumed were an effort in gathering supplies for first aid, but a glance at the two upon arrival had proven her wrong. It meant things were worse than she thought. This incident was the step too far. An international crisis only narrowly averted by negotiation by her and Russel on their behalfs. They had until nightfall before they would be classified as missing in action, and it was mere luck that the two had stumbled through the doorway with so little time left. There had been the smallest hint of relief hidden behind the cover of the printed word that quickly morphed into an expression of rage and disdain. To show relief would be a show of weakness.

     There's a new enemy rising, one yet to be named. It had been an unvoiced worry that their forces were even greater than anticipated, that two of the greatest agents at their disposal had disappeared into the night as some before them. An entire drawer in her desk has been claimed in dedication to the files of those suspected to be missing at the hands of- that's the question, isn't it? Who's behind it all? Of course they write off the dead, the missing, hiding them in plain sight. Some killed in action, others 'retired', or pedestrian deaths. All rewritten for the sake of a lack of questions being asked. At least for as long as they don't have answers- or ones they're not willing to share, even with each other.

     Ashing the cigarette into the tray, she glances at the door when a knock sounds through the room, and instincts motivate her free hand to shift to the small of her back to grip her pistol, the same place she always kept it in her days of field work, only to find herself wanting. An irritated huff of smoke before her hand moves to the holster on her hip to withdraw the firearm. Even after years of desk work, she's never gotten quite used to that transition, or the absence of the familiar pressure. She slips the gun just behind her, keeping it hidden from view, should the unexpected visitor be a hostile, she'll be prepared.

     "Come in."

     Her voice doesn't betray the suspicion, the readiness to kill is it's anyone but those who are meant to know of her location. The wood creaks, and the hinges scream in protest as it opens to reveal none other than agent Owen Carvour. A small smile breaks across her crimson lips and the hand still occupied with a cigarette moves to flick the file shut with surprising speed and the gun is slipped into its familiar place. Holster be damned.

     "Hope I'm not interrupting anything, love."

     He flashes her one of his disarming smiles, the sort she's seen all her career. The sort that says he's abut the try to feed her a line of sugar coated bullshit and ask her to believe it to be gospel truth.

     A dismissive wave of her hand, turning her back to him. An unconscious sign of trust between spies, or perhaps a purposeful disarming technique. Can two spies ever have true trust when the whole of their existence is built upon lies and secrecy? Cynthia certainly doesn't think so, but she draws no attention to it. An unceremoniously flick of the wrist and the cigarette sails into the ceramic tray on the desk with surprising accuracy. Her response to the brit is more automatic than consciously chosen.

     "You're fine-- don't suppose you've reconsidered my offer?"

     There's older agent feels an almost twinge of regret at saying that, given how she has to reevaluate the benefits and drawbacks of Owen's relationship with Curt. There's a bittersweet pang when the familiar response reaches her.

     "As much as I appreciate the offer, I'm afraid I have to decline, it's still a matter of treason."

     "Well you know our door is always open."

     A weighted pause hangs in the air after the casual banter, filling the room with unspoken tensions. Turning to face him once again and she knows there's something because he still has that smile. Fishing for the lighter again and produces a cigarette that's promptly offered to the younger agent, only to be waved off. Another click and she lights it before taking a long, contemplative inhale that fills her lungs with acrid smoke. Was Patton truly so cowed by her that he was sending this child to do his bidding? Owen Carvour might be 22, but he's still a child in her eyes. He's a good agent, but he's still green. Green enough he has yet to have that haunted look that all older agents have in their eyes. He'll learn eventually, they always do, especially when playing a game so dangerous as the one he and curt are daring to.

     "If you're not here about that, then why the fuck are you here?"

     Watching him, she notes the way he runs his hands over his thighs, the soft fall of his shoulders. He's trying to play her, but fails to realize that she's been playing this game since he was in diapers and she knows every dirty trick in the book. He can't fool her, but it's amusing to watch him try.

     "I wanted to explain what happened on the mission, you see I---"

     "Save it, Mega already filled me in on this shit at the hospital, but you know that. So why are you really here?"

     "What happened wasn't his fault---"

     She raises a hand, effectively cutting him off with little more than the simple gesture and one of her less potent glares.

     "I already said that Mega gave me the damn sob story--- save your fucking breath and stop wasting my time. You have five words before I put in a call to Patton. Talk."

     A pause, he has to deliberately choose his words but Cynthia is cutting that pause quite short as she already begins her cross towards the phone. It's not as if she can't call him from the watch on her wrist, she's making a statement, a visual display of power. Manicured hand rests on the phone and starts to lift.

     "Don't punish Curt... He's suffered enough."

     The words split the silence with a weight far exceeding what they hold any right to have. She hates to admit that she'd been afraid of a response like that. Lips flatten into a line briefly as she continues to face away, hand hovering for a moment before she clicks the phone back onto the reciever. Looking back to him, she chooses her next words quite carefully.

     "I said five, that was six... take a fucking seat, Carvour. We need to talk."

     He starts to say that he's fine standing as she juts her chin in the direction of the chair, but there's something about her look that bids him to command, and he settles himself into the wooden chair that's been pulled away from the desk. Cynthia in turn moves to the desk and settles her hips against it, effectively placing herself between him and the exit, another power play that doesn't go unnoticed by him. She crushes the cigarette in the ash tray amongst the others, the scent of smoke still lingering heavy in the air as she drums her fingers against the edge of the desk. There are delicate ways to go about this, but she's rarely one for subtlety, even in moments such as this.

     "You're too protective of your boyfriend, you'll start drawing attention to yourselves--- and don't try to deny it. I've known you and and Mega are screwing for months."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on this fic for over a year, so I apologize for the sporadic updates. But hey! A whole year! I will be attempting to start updating this on a weekly basis, and I'll be using my continuing this as my nanowrimo project next month so hopefully expect lots of updates soon! Also I'm posting this on tumblr on alexithymiafic.tumblr.com so if you have any questions you'd like to ask, you'd like to become a beta reader, or you're interested in the real life updates as I write this feel free to check it out!

     The silence that follows is confirmation enough in and of itself for the brunette. It only lasts a few brief seconds but she can see the brief flicker and flurry of emotions that might have escaped an agent with less training. Or fooled one who didn't know what they were looking for as surely as she did. She watches as the younger starts to rise, keeping that heavy mask firmly in place, but she doesn't say a word, waits for him to break the thrall of the moment. She has no intentions of letting him leave quite yet. They have more to talk about.

 

     "Thank you for your time, Ms. Houston."

 

     She doesn't stand from the desk, only fixes her gaze firmly upon the british agent and lets the stern nature of her voice do the intimidation for her.

 

     "Sit your ass back down, Carvour, I said we needed to talk."

 

     Her head cocks in the direction of the phone and she doesn't have to announce the threat to make it clear. _Leave now and the next call I make is to your director._ Not that she has any intention of following through on such a threat. That would be an idiotic move as it would put her own agent in the line of fire, she knows better. She's a veteran of the game and she knows that Owen can't take the chance that she might follow through with something like that. He sits again, looking at her in silence, he knows better than to confirm nor deny his relationship with Curt. Like a trial, anything he says can be used against him. It's less of a conversation as it is Cynthia staring him down until he sits again.

 

     "You and Mega really fucked up this time. Patton and I are the only reason your shit show didn't cause a massive international fucking crisis- it took us over an hour to find your crash site since Curt's tracker stopped transmitting miles away from it. I don't give a damn what you two were doing on the side of the road for so long, I give a damn that he turned his tracker off after and if it had been on we would have found you last night. Those damn things are expensive, and they give off a signal when they're broken- if they're actually fucking turned on that is."

 

     The anger could be considered something akin to patience and understanding considering how much verbal abuse Curt had endured even as he lay in a hospital bed with the makeshift splint being cut away and a new cast being replaced- but at least he'd had the benefits of anesthetic and the ignorance of the depths of knowledge she held in regards to his relationship with Owen. Neither benefited Owen as he still sat, something he wouldn't normally endure if not for the very real threat of exposure looming over his head. A heavy, dark cloud, more ominous than the ones that had been hanging above as he had trudged with Curt through the mud and rain. At least he's gotten the benefits of a shower since, and managed to rinse the mud out of his still damp shoes. Their eyes meet, and she's daring him to say something, anything at all, but he remains cold, a stone wall that her comments seem not to break.

 

     "Tell me you at least managed to get a look at the bastard that shot out your tires. What they were driving. Anything. They've taken out enough good men and we've got no damn leads- I don't give a shit how pissed you might be because I know your damn secret, open your mouth and act like you've got a brain in that thick limey skull of yours and _talk_."

 

     She's staring him down again, somehow colder than before, more piercing. Perhaps it's driven by the desperation welling deep inside of her. No one would ever dare accuse Cynthia of an emotion so human as caring, but she does. Not that she would ever admit aloud, she'd rather be called a bitch than compassionate. Her agents aren't the only ones at risk, and perhaps there are soft chords of humanity plucking at her soul, but they don't compare to the guilt that's begun to build and weigh on her calloused heart. Her agents, her responsibility.

 

     Last night had been harder than she would ever say to anyone, more stressful than anyone would ever know. Shot out tires, the traces of blood where the trees overhead had shielded the evidence from being washed away in the downpour. Patton had decided to wait at the hotel, keep an eye out for the missing agents should they return. Cynthia had made it to the scene before anyone else, the first to abandon the place the tracker had cut out. The car had been a glinting object in the darkness of the tree line, barely able to be discerned to the naked eye, easily missed as are the black marks where the tires had skidded out. A part of her had questioned as she approached the wreck with apprehension if she was going to find the lifeless corpses of the agents in the low light. Far too many times she's seen spies face miraculous odds and survive the most improbable situations only to be struck down from the most mundane of circumstances. A thunder storm on a nearly deserted road in the middle of nowhere, slick roads combined with a spy who laughs at death but flinches at lightning and of course she knows about that little fear of his. She's a damn good spy after all.

 

     The mud had seeped into her shoes in a mere few steps and with a grunt of annoyance and a loud curse, she wrenched the impractical heels off of her feet, not having been planning for this while packing. Even with the sludge lapping at her ankles now only covered by pantyhose, at least she wasn't getting stuck every few steps. The car, when it came into view, was a mess. The front end had been crumpled where it slammed into the tree, one door hung as a seemingly impossible angle to still remain attached to the car. The leather upholstery had been torn open and the glove box had quite clearly been rifled through, but it was free of blood. She couldn't decide if that was a blessing or curse in the moment as she continued to examine the scene, heels discarded carelessly to the grass as she drew her pistol, crossed over the top with a flashlight she had yet to turn on. She didn't know for certain if she was alone, so she made a slow sweep, mentally cursed them for crashing into a tree line and not an open field. It was then, below a tree she saw a dark substance on a rock, distinctly different than mud. Flashlight was suddenly brought to life and the crimson blood on the rock almost made her flinch because there's no body to accompany it. It wasn't much, but enough to know that one of them was injured in the crash. She considered then what the chances are that the vehicle was ransacked for medical supplies, but the train of thought was cut off when a flicker of light through the night seemed to illuminate a figure in the trees. It was hard to see, but it looked to be someone dressed in dark clothes, twenty feet into the tree line. A flash of gold from light shining off of seemingly blonde hair was what drew her attention, but quick as it happens, the sky is dark again, and by the time she managed to turn her flashlight onto the spot she thought she saw the figure, it was gone. Her eyes didn't leave the spot as she called for reinforcements, nor did her gun lower.

 

     Owen is just as soon content to hold his own counsel, especially in the face of such insults, and often would. It's a matter of principle, but she's got leverage on him. Not just on him, but Curt as well, which makes the minefield of this conversation that much more treacherous, and so he goes about it the same way he would in any interrogation. The safest bet is always to disavow all knowledge.

 

     "...that sounds terrible, unfortunately, I didn't see anything last night."

 

     Cynthia's eyes roll in an exaggerated fashion and fingertips dig a bit harder into the desk as she resists the urge to light up yet another cigarette. A rush of nicotine far more pleasant than attempting something that she considers to be adjacent to a _civil_ conversation that feels more like pulling teeth. A bloody, messy, and disturbing practice, and one she's gotten better at than she'll ever say. Those days are far behind her, and yet she finds that she'd almost be willing to be pull those talents out of retirement and break an obscene amount of international treaties if it just means that Owen will just stop with the bullshit. Like she hadn't spoken to Curt about what he'd seen last night, only to be informed that the other had likely saved his life by telling him to duck when he did.

 

     "Welcome back to the conversation you dense fuck- It's not just american lives on the line dip shit, it's yours too. These people don't give a flying fuck about allegiances- I'm not the only one losing damn good men to these bastards, I'm sure Patton's been giving lots of excuses for all the people disappearing over there. now that we're on the same page, if you've got any respect for your job, your fellow spies, or any basic human fucking decency, you're tell me exactly what the fuck you saw last night. Unless your telling Mega to duck last night was part of some kinky game of duck duck goose, but hey- who the fuck am I to judge as long as you give me the damn information."

 

     Of course Curt had told her that, though at the comment he has to bite back the automatic urge to deny the allegation. He only needs to get through this day, and if all goes well, then he'll be free. But that requires making it through this conversation, and for the briefest of moments he sees why the other complains so much about her. Still, he closes his eyes, tries to place himself in a moment that while only a day earlier feels as if it's been years. There was Curt, the brunt of his attention, the reason why he'd looked that way. Spotting the gunman? That had been something, perhaps not luck, as luck would have entailed not crashing. The total avoidance of the last 24 hours as a whole.

 

     "...it was a man, on a black motorbike. Broad shoulders, right handed. Unfortunately I didn't see much else before the tires were shot out."

 

     "One last question, Carvour, before you go running off to cover your ass... was it a blonde that shot at you?"

 

     An eyebrow is raised at him and he almost makes a remark about the fact it was dark, and the gunman had been wearing a helmet making it impossible to tell, but he contemplates the moment for a moment, and he remembers the flash of something seeming like gold under the light that split the sky, just between the helmet and the jacket- maybe it wasn't a man after all.

 

     "Yes, I think it was."

 

     Owen starts to rise as Cynthia waves dismissively towards the door, a silent signal that he can in fact leave without consequence as she reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the desk. Ignoring the urge will do her no kindnesses as she mulls over this new information, but she pauses when the brit is almost to the door.

 

     "Oh and Owen- when you see Russell, and I assume you're going to see him- ask him about the missing agents. See if he keeps lying to you when he knows that you know better- _Patton is one hell of a fucking liar._ "

* * *

 

      "All missing, presumed dead."

 

     There's an almost callous nature to the way that Russell flicks the pictures across the table to Owen. A series of polaroids stare up at him, some caught so perfectly in a moment that they look as though they might draw breath in the frame, others are more stilted in their composure, eyes as still and dead as the subjects are said to be. He doesn't need to ask who they are. There's enough faces that are recognizable, men and women he'd met in passing, that he's worked with. It's not hard to guess the common thread that binds them together. It doesn't escape his notice either that the older has another photograph face down beneath his palm, a piece he's sure is key to this cryptic thread, however he holds his tongue as the director speaks once again.

 

     "Some of our best agents, gone without a trace. It's lead us to believe that there's someone on the inside working with _them_."

 

     This is the part where he's supposed to ask who he suspects, or show some sort of rage he supposes, but there still feels like there's something wrong. Eyes keep falling to the photo still unrevealed, as if he'll somehow will him to turn it over, and perhaps he can because it's then that he glances up to Patton's face and he slides it across to Owen with a sort of cold look that he can't interpret at first, until he turns it over.

 

     A man with a smile looks up at him, warm and inviting. The eyes of a man he'd once considered to be something of a brother so alive and bright. Eyes he hasn't seen in two, no three years now. The anniversary had only recently passed and he still remembers like it was yesterday, the moment that they were separated by a collapsing wall. He'd never seen him again.

 

     "I'm sure you recognize your former partner, William, wasn't it? How long has it been?"

 

     It's in equal parts a test and an accusation, and Owen can feel the bile creeping up his throat at the insinuation but he can't force himself to look up from the photograph as the words seem to come to him in a haze of white noise.

 

     " _William Clarke_. It was three years ago, and he's not missing, he's **dead**. I should know, I was there."

 

     It's more blunt than he would normally dare to be with the director of his agency, but the accusations he's only thinly veiling in such a casual way are making him sick to his stomach as he can't tear his eyes away from the ghost sitting before him, the wound still raw with the time that's passed.

 

     "Yes, you were... If I'm not mistaken you've worked with several of them. In fact you were one of the last to communicate with agent King before her untimely disappearance. Am I led to believe that it's only coincidence?"

 

     Finally his eyes tear away from the polaroid to stare directly into the surprisingly calm expression of Russell Patton and he's certain if he hears anything else of the like he'll start seeing red. Maybe it's just the fact of the length of the day he's had, or that he's still thoroughly on edge after his conversation with Cynthia. Rather than lashing out at him, he stands, rage burning silent in his eyes before he's turning to make his exit, until Patton slides a manilla envelope across the table to him.

 

     "I'll see you in my office tomorrow morning for your partner assignment, eleven sharp. Be familiar by then- _and you can keep the photograph_."

* * *

 

     The hotel room that might serve as a sanctuary in another time seems more to him like a tomb. They've been playing a dangerous game for well over a year now, and while they thought they'd been careful, they hadn't been careful enough. If Cynthia knew, then it was only a matter of time until Russell found out. Far beyond playing with matches and their fragile world is on fire. He knew it had to end at some point. It was never meant to begin at all, never meant to extend past a single night, a single mission. Somehow he's managed to play himself for the fool and entertained the idea that as two of the self proclaimed greatest spies the world had ever seen, that they could escape detection by those who have been practicing this profession for longer than either of them have been alive. Even so, there's nothing left to do but to sever ties with the other agent, and move on.

 

     Packing is solemn, quiet. A simple enough affair in the empty hotel room. No Curt to distract and hinder methodical process. It's not as if there's much to pack regardless, it was meant to be a short mission, only a night. A single suitcase, and now an envelope that seems to feel like a lead weight in his hands, words on paper that won't stop swimming because Agent Curt Mega keeps slipping into his thoughts unwarranted and unwanted. He sits not on his own bed, but on Curt's. It would feel perhaps too intimate if he didn't know that it would be the last time. The envelope sits beside him on the edge, waiting, thinking.

 

     When the key rattles in the lock there's a moment when his mind calls back to their first hotel room.

 

_Curt stumbling through the door with a grin plastered across his arrogant features, moving with the all encompassing grace of one so completely far gone they won't remember the next day._

 

_"Are you drunk, Mega?" Tone is incredulous, and he can tell the answer not just by the stumbling and disheveled appearance but from the stench of whiskey rolling off of him so thick and heavy that it almost makes him gag. "Can't you stay sober for one bloody day?"_

 

_Curt's only response had been to grin even wider and ask "Why aren't you? We won." Blood spatter graces the collar of his shirt, there are scratches on his arm, and a distortion to his voice not only from the slur of alcohol but from a swollen jaw. The way he favors his left leg isn't difficult to see either. The idiot had gone and gotten himself into a fight. Owen can't find it in himself to care, he goes back to work. He's a grown man, he can take care of himself._

 

     It isn't the first night that Curt comes back like that, and it's likely that it will continue to happen long after he's left. At least it's anesthetic this time, not alcohol, but he has his suspicions it won't remain that way for long. He watches as Curt smiles ever so slightly, before it falls into a mask that seeps poorly concealed disappointment. He has to go, he knows it, and he knows that Curt knows it.

 

    "MI6 wants you back tomorrow, don't they?"

 

     Owen is no stranger to the bitterness in Curt's voice, the same tone he always takes when he's upset that he has to leave. At least Curt will never have to use that tone again, at least not directed towards him. He doesn't know yet that he's never going to leave him again because this has to be the last time. It has to be over now, whether he wants it to be or not. Goodbyes always had a chance to be the last in their line of work, but he wonders if things would hurt less if it was a more definitive parting. Senseless bloodshed in all of its chaos at times seems to make more sense than this. He studies Curt, much the way that the other is, but with more of a silent fervor. He will try to forget agent Mega, but he doubts he ever will. He knows now is when he should take his exit, but he remains glued to the spot, even as the other won't meet his eyes. Magnetic attraction draws him to his feet and he watches Curt's gaze fall to the floor. So typical of him. He knows he should walk away now, he's always hated goodbyes and he doesn't know if he has the strength of will to look him in the eyes and say goodbye forever. Rather unconsciously he finds himself before the other, fingertips gently nudging Curt's chin upwards to look at him, and he can see all of it in his eyes. He doesn't want to say goodbye even as he looks at Curt's scowl. Forcing words into his mouth, they twist and curl until he finally speaks.

 

     "You want me to stay."

 

 _But I can never stay again._ The shorter doesn't have to have a verbal response for the older to know exactly what's going on inside his head. If he could manage mercifulness, he would walk away now, without another word. Break this thrall and spare them both the prolonging of heartbreak. He can't be the first one to break Curt Mega's heart, and he can't possibly be the last. It's unfathomable. It's what it means to be who they are living in the times that they do and with the work they do. Partners come and go, it's a sad reality of their existence and he can pretend that they don't carry the weight of those on their shoulders, but isn't that also what it means to be a spy? To suffer silently for the greater good? His hand moves without command, releasing the other's chin before splaying over his chest, feeling the jack hammering of his heart beneath his fingertips and the constant heat. Curt's always warm, and for a moment all he can think of if being wrapped up in his arms. A safe place they'd made in an unforgiving world that would not tolerate them and their supposed deviance. He can feel the other looking at him, those eyes so intent and starting to fracture his mask. Now or never, it has to be done.

 

     "You know that I love you, Curt, it's not like I want to go."

 

     It's not what he meant to say, not what he meant to do. Two separate conversations happening at once. He's trying to say goodbye but the words are coming out all wrong. He knows he shouldn't have said that, that it's not fair and there's a wrench in his gut at the thought that Curt might say it back. That this prolific moment between them will be the moment not that fire meets gunpowder, but the moment that the wick of this long burning fuse will run out and leave them both trying to salvage themselves from the fallout of the catastrophe that ensues. He watches as the other remains seemingly placid, tries to maintain the same calm. Torture can't break them, they've shown that to each other time and time again, but there are worse things it seems than physical pain.

 

     He watches as Curt's lips part, hyper aware of the exact moment his hand moves to his jaw, and then to his hair. _Don't say it. Don't say it. Don't you bloody say it, Mega._ In a moment he's pulled into him, and their lips collide. It has to be the last. He knows it has to be the last so his hand grips into Curt's shirt and he pulls him closer until their bodies are flush and they're sustaining themselves on the air in each other's lungs. Nothing matters in this moment. There is no world outside, no rules, no missions, no goodbyes, no air. There is only Curt and their contacts and the heat, even as his lungs burn and scream for oxygen as the other tries to pull away just slightly his lips try to chase his. He's not ready to say goodbye yet. 

 

     "Please stay."

 

     Never has he heard a sweeter or more intoxicating sound. He knows he can't, he shouldn't. It's wrong to stay when he knows it will be the last night but he tells himself that Curt would want this too if he knew it would be the last. Make it something worth remembering. An apology and a love letter and a goodbye all at once that the other could decipher when it was all over. He pulls him in, kisses him harder, an almost animalistic nature to his movements because he needs this. He needs him. He's not ready to say goodbye but he has to be gone in the morning, there's an expiration date on this. On them. On the world inside this hotel room that's burning around them even without Curt's knowledge. So he'll make the moments last forever because as long as they last, they never have to say goodbye.

 

     They lay in bed after the fact, a mess of limbs and the silence only broken by the soft breathing. Exhaustion has taken hold, clear presence of mind having been locked away. He'll say things now he'll likely regret in the morning but between these sheets in this world of their own it's okay to speak his mind one more time. To be almost cruel in his honesty because it feels like a kindness in this moment.

 

     "I meant what I said, love."

 

     There were many things said between the sheets in hours of activity. A mess of promises and teasing, words that are both meant and never meant to be said between people like them. Studying the ceiling above them, he doesn't look over to the american, but he can almost feel that smirk. The temptation to say something that will somehow ruin the sanctity of this moment, and the words slip out again.

 

     "I love you."

 

     "Oh."

 

     It's the type of response he expected from him. It's better than hearing him say it back now. The other's struggle of finding words is something that he can feel even as he continues to fixate on a small crack in the paint above their heads where the cream color had flaked away to reveal a very small section of indigo that had been painted over. He speaks up again, and he feels a stab of guilt in his gut. Deep inside he knows this is wrong. Unfair to subject him to knowing that he must leave but in the afterglow it's smoothed over, the blow softened.

 

     "I didn't say it because I wanted to hear you say it back, I said it because I meant it. And I thought you should know."

 

     Unconsciously, his hand moves, searches for Curt's hand, a lifeline. A reassurance at the squeeze that maybe they can somehow make this work. Maybe MI-6 can spare him just this once. He can tell Curt everything and they'll somehow manage to make it through this just as they've made it through before time and time again.

 

     "What does this mean- for us?"

 

     The question makes him chuckle softly for a moment, and he's not sure if it's in spite of the situation or because of it as he rolls onto his side and gently graces the side of Curt's face with his hand as he catches his eyes.

 

     "It means whatever you want it to mean, love."

 

     "What if it means I want you to stay?"

 

     "I'll stay. I promise."

 

     Even through the haze of afterglow, he could swear that he hears a quiet voice whisper at the back of his mind. _Liar._

* * *

 

     The sun begins to peek through the curtains and split the room. Curt is first to awaken, as he always is. It was something he hadn't expected the first time that one of these dalliances, but now he's come to appreciate it. Watching Owen sleep is one of the few times it's possible to see the other without his mask that remains so rigidly and firmly in place. There's a distinct essence of vulnerability in the moment, when he's resting his head against his lover's chest, listening to the soft beating of his heart and the quiet rhythms of his breath. It's comforting to bask in the stillness of the morning, and let it be something as simple as this. No need to try to quantify or define or think about the words spoken the night before. The words he can't find in himself to say himself.

 

     Heart skips and stutters in his chest at the sheer remembrance and he shifts uncomfortably between the sheets, causing the other stir for only a moment before settling once more with loosened grip around him. Occasions such as these are rare. Times in which they wake up entangled, and without the hasty movements of dressing to disembark on yet another mission. Curt rolls away briefly, shrugging off the embrace to reach across to his bedside table, wincing slightly as he puts pressure onto his injured arm to grasp his flask.

 

     The moment is too intimate. Too close. The words are still rattling around inside his chest, making the air thick and heavy. He needs a drink more than he needs the leaden air. Swallowing the precious whiskey like it will somehow make him breathe again, burn through the tension in his chest and open his throat. The flask is set down near empty on the wood, and he knows that Owen will smell it on his breath and disapprove, but he can hope that it will be attributed to the night before. A lapse in logic. He hadn't been drinking the night before, only had the slur and gracelessness from anesthetic, with the thick plaster reminder wrapped around his arm as a reminder. His flask is only filled from a late night escapade after the other had fallen asleep. A precautionary measure for a morning anticipated to be quite like this. Mind flickers, debates being dressed and packed before Owen wakes, being the one to walk away for once even though he'd asked him to stay.

 

     Rolling flat onto his back, his head rests on the pillow as he looks across to the other again. Studies him much the way he did the evening before, and it hits him again that he's going to have to leave. The night is stolen time, time that they can't afford and will have to account for through a series of lies and excuses as has become typical of their dalliance. As the brit begins to stir he turns over so as to break eye contact before it can begin. An attempt to cut the intimacy off at the root before it can attempt to flourish again.

 

     Owen can smell the whiskey even in waking. Between the alcohol and the movement, it's enough to rouse him from his rest. He hates the smell of it, and yet he reaches out unconsciously to gently touch the other's arm, fingertips brushing over the scar tissue gently and despite Curt feigning sleep in an attempt he assumes to avoid the words said the night before, he knows better by now. He mutters a groggy good morning, too tired to form proper thought as he begins to stir. The American is still persistent in his false sleep, but despite an instinctual response that almost causes him to flinch away, he allows himself the liberty of such casual contact for a moment.

 

     Curt capitulates after a few brief minutes and turns to face him, groaning quietly as he has to adjust his casted arm once again. He might have been prescribed pills for the pain but he prefers the alcohol. The burn is a more comforting feeling than numbness. The less than pleased look on his partner's face as the scent of his indiscretion is confirmed is noted but he doesn't let it phase him. It's a common enough state that they don't need to have the fight over again. The older will disapprove and speak of the dangers of alcohol, and the younger will simply deny his problem and claim that he's fine, a circular argument that never seems to cease. Owen repeats his morning sentiments and Curt returns them in the vein of that feigned exhaustion just to avoid the weight of having to acknowledge those words were said for a third time, and in a similar pattern of avoidance the american is the first to reluctantly exit the warmth of the bed. He fishes for his discarded clothing from their undignified piles on the floor, and manages some semblance of modesty in the form of slipping on undergarments before he crosses the room to his suitcase to root through the pockets for what he's looking for.

 

     "You want coffee?"

 

     It's routine, the same question that Curt always asks, and the same answer greets him, some form of a no. At least this time he isn't insulting it's integrity and ability to be called coffee, or insulting his standards or lack thereof.

 

     The packets of instant coffee grounds combine with hot tap water from the restroom sink in a styrofoam cup can barely be considered a palatable beverage that he amends with the addition of a less than healthy addition of whiskey from his flask. He ignores yet another disapproving look as he swirls the bitter sludge with a lazy motion. A quick tip of it and the concoction spills down his throat and grimaces as he sets the cup down again. A stolen glance to his watch, and he has to try not to feel disappointment hit when he realizes that it's already eight in the morning and Owen was meant to already be gone the night before. He watches out of the corner of his eye as his partner rolls out of bed, faces away from him.

 

     "Patton is expecting you back this morning, isn't he?"

 

     He says it as casually as he can, stooping down to collect his shirt off the floor, somehow more aware of the fact that in only boxers his scars are on display. He's never been good at these goodbyes or the sort of intimacy that comes with the morning after. He likes when he stays. Sleeping together might be vulnerable but he feels safer in his arms than anywhere in the world. But that doesn't require words and goodbyes do. There's a struggle to get the shirt back on as it catches on his cast at first but after a brief moment he tugs it down and glances over to see the other mostly dressed already and he feels more exposed than before. Acutely aware that his question was never answered, he takes it as a confirmation, and while Owen's silence isn't uncharacteristic, there's something different about it tonight. A charged presence to it. Maybe it was the I love you from the night before. Twice the older had said it, but Curt had failed to say it back. Was that what was wrong now? He has to wonder, but he doesn't say anything about it as he fishes his pants from beneath the edge of the bed before he starts to pull them on.

 

     "Flight's only what, two hours? You might be a little late, but you should be-"

 

     "-we need to end this."

 

     The word _oh_ almost falls out. That seems to be his reaction to things lately. Oh. Just... _oh_. It's not that he doesn't care, or that it doesn't hurt- in fact it hurts more than he wants to admit aloud, and maybe that's why they're sitting on either side of the same bed, both facing in opposite directions. He always knew this day would come eventually, but he hadn't thought it would be like this. So simple, and yet so cold. A flashback to the car, accusing him of being a robot, maybe he wasn't entirely wrong. Even so, he doesn't react, not at first. Only stills for a brief moment before continuing to dress himself, facing away and with a quite placid expression he responds in a quite casual way. If Owen can be placid and calm about this, treat it in such a matter of fact way, then so can he.

 

     "I think you're right."

 

     Rising to his feet he tugs his pants up over his hips, fumbles with the button and zipper, lets the silence speak for itself. Whatever dignity he has is robbed by the combined lack of grace from the cast and alcohol making what should be a simple task rather difficult, but he can almost feel how the other is pointedly trying to ignore it. Just as he assumes that they're ignoring the fact that the other had said I love you the night before. He's supposed to fight for him, isn't he? It might just be some ploy to trick him into saying it back, but somehow he doubts as much. Owen's sense of humor might be dry but not this extreme. So it's over. Just like that. That raging heat inside of him hasn't subsided and yet he still finds himself uncomfortably numb. That could just be the whiskey though working its way through his system. Of course he watches out of the corner of his eye as he walks around the beds, almost expecting him to make some sort of remark telling him not to be an idiot, and of course he didn't mean it, but instead he simply picks up the manilla envelope off of his bed, grabs his suitcase and starts walking towards the door. The taller stops for a moment at the doorway, as if there's something more to say, and Curt can't help the urge to turn and look at him, to try to decode wants going on inside his head.

 

     "Owen-"

 

     He doesn't know what he's about to say, only that he needs to say something. Even so, he doesn't get the chance as the other opens the door and walks away, leaving Curt to bury his head in his hands and wish that he hadn't already finished his meager supply of whiskey.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five months after the events in Prague.

     Angelica Donerson smiles ever so slightly, slender fingers gently gripping black silk of a tie as she slips it beneath the fold of her boyfriend's popped collar, adjusting until it sits at just the right length. It's not as if he's incapable of doing it himself, only that she enjoys these moments of casual intimacy. Movements are careful, deliberate, forming a perfect knot with that uncanny ability of hers and moving it up into place before smoothing his collar down gently. Hands stay resting on his shoulders when her job is complete, looking into his mossy green eyes with a small smile.

     "You never manage to get it quite right, couldn't have you going out with a crooked tie, now could I? That just wouldn't do."

     Her voice is gentle, lyrical. It's the sort of voice that in combination with her striking figure has been known to devastate a man. Her perfectly polished nails and perfectly curled hair is meant to fool those who don't know better than to ignore the instinctual alarms that say this woman is a weapon. As skilled in combat in heels as she is at disarming someone with conversation. Her femininity is as sharpened as her marksmanship is deadly to those who don't know how to handle her cutting edges. There's a reason she's earned the nickname lark. She isn't named for the caged songbird that many assume, but for the poison flower. Larkspur. She carries the name with pride, daring someone to strip her of her title. An agent of the most distinctive measure, and she tells herself precisely that is why she's been chosen for this mission, and not for her connection to _him_.

     "I knew there was a reason I kept you around. What would I do without you?"

     Curt smiles as he looks back into her eyes, moving a hand to the small of her back, he pulls her in, lips barely brushing hers. He knows better by now than to let it linger. The trademark of the lark has never been her voice or her body, but her lips. An array of carefully formulated lipsticks, the side effects of which could range from brief stints of dizziness to fatality. While Curt has never been on the receiving end of the latter end of the scale, she has caused him to lose consciousness before, every time she swore to be unintentional. He doesn't know if he believes her that every one was an accident, but he's learned to be wiser.

     "Well... I suspect that you'd be lost, with a crooked tie, trying to find some other girl to fix it for you... not that you ever had much trouble getting them into your bed before me."

     There's a smirk there on her lips, a teasing tone to her voice. Angelina is many things, but she's not the jealous type, it would be hard to justify in this line of work, working in such close quarters. It's a sort of unspoken agreement between them not to allow any potential insecurities from partnerships cause strain on their relationship. It's the only way to make this work, though she finds it something of a relief to see the way that he so simply and easily seems to be able to rebuff the advances of even their most attractive and alluring coworkers. Of course that doesn't mean that she hasn't heard the warnings and cautionary tales that seem to follow him around. But to tell a spy not to do something serves often to be a challenge written out in bold electric letters. And look at them now, she tells herself that they're fine. Better fine, they're great.

     The last five months have been something different, she has to admit, but she can't say that it's necessarily a bad change. The slight shift that came home with him from the Josefov mission along with the cast. Perhaps it was the fact that with his dominant hand primarily disabled by the plaster, the situation had necessitated their time together be amplified. ' _Will I be seeing you tonight?_ ' morphed into the common question of ' _Your place or mine?_ ' and finally into ' _I'll see you at home_.' It was never a true discussion but at some point her toothbrush made its home in his medicine cabinet, a box of hastily left behind items became drawers, and his closet of impeccably pressed suits and shirts had become rearranged to accommodate her clothing, her shoes. At some point her name had changed as well. Donerson became Lark, Lark became Angelica, and finally, Angelica became Angie. A nickname she never liked but for some reason it sounded alright coming from him. The temporary increase in staying the night hadn't faded in the two months since the removal of his cast and there are times she can't deny that she wonders if she should ask if paying her rent is still worth it when she's all but living with him now, but the timing is always wrong. It's not as if she's worried about solidifying this anymore. They're comfortable, something spies rarely get to be, and she decides that she can be alright with that.

     "You're right... so you should let me return the favor... close your eyes."

     A mischievous smile graces his features, the glint of something in his eyes that she sees only briefly before her own flutter closed. Trust runs deep between them now, she feels, even as she feels the absence as his hand moves from the small of her back. The room falls so silent that a pin could be heard dropping from the floor above if they weren't alone. Curt always managed to surprise her with the way that he could move so quietly and with such grace despite his size. Focusing in, she tries to guess, and he must be holding his breath, making his movements so deliberate that she won't hear them. The question of what exactly he means by returning the favor springs to mind and causes the faintest of blushes to creep into her features before she hears his voice right next to her ear, hardly there at all.

     "You're cute when you blush."

     "I don't blush, Mega."

     "Tell that to your face."

     She'd come up with some clever retort to combat that if not for the silent surprise of his hands brushing her golden locks gently over her shoulder, before she feels something cool touching her chest, looping around her neck. Calloused fingertips brush over the gentle skin and she shivers unintentionally at the contact before the weight settles against her and curls are pulled through to rest over top of the chain. With his hands resting on her shoulders, she allows him to turn her to face in the direction of the mirror.

     "You finished my outfit, it only seems fair that I help with yours. You can open your eyes now."

     A breathe she doesn't realize she was holding in escapes her as her eyes open to see the necklace draped so delicately around her. A shining silver chain, with a small and yet intricate design set with onyx and sapphires. A simple design, and yet stunning all the same. It's moments like these that make Angie question how people can paint him as such a heartless and unthinking creature. Perhaps he's not always the most forthcoming, or particularly warm when first making his acquaintance, but over time he performs such thoughtful actions that she finds it near impossible to resist the magnetic draw that keeps drawing her back. Hand moves, gently touching the pendant that in its simplicity draws the eye so easily. The choice to wear the blue dress it seems was correct. Gaze flickers from the pendant to Curt's reflection, seeing that smug and self satisfied look that he gets when he knows he's done something right.

     "Thank you Curt, it's lovely."

     That's probably the moment she would have kissed him if he had managed to keep his mouth shut. It seems to her though to be a habit of his. To take moments that should be romantic or sweet and ruin them by running that mouth of his.

     "Oh, am I Curt again? I thought I'd been demoted to Mega."

     Cocky smirk overtakes him and sometimes she's not sure if she wants to kiss him or kill him for ruining the moment this time and there's a temptation to do both, but he's pulling away from her oh so easily and in an instant he's out of reach for either. Well maybe not either, it would be easy enough to dispatch him from a distance with ease, there's a heavy paperweight reflected in the mirror that with the right angle and force- the thoughts are shaken out of her head. Spy brain she presumes never fully turns off. Hands move to adjust the chain and she catches a glimpse of the ring on her finger and she smiles a little more. She's quite glad they chose silver now over the more classical gold.

     "Keep it up, Mega, and you'll get busted all the way back down to _agent_."

     "You're killing me here, Angie."

     Ever the tease, that mischievous glint still dancing in his eyes as he lifts the packed suitcases from their position at the wall and cocking his head towards the door.

     "I'll get the suitcases down to the car, can you grab the passports on your way?"

     He quirks an eyebrow at her and it's her turn from over dramatics as she turns to face him, draping herself against the dresser with a look of mock horror that almost cracks them both up before she can even speak. Still, they both narrowly cling to their composure even as she does her best to break through his stonewalling.

     "You want _me_ , a delicate precious flower, to grab _the passports_? How truly terrible, I don't know how I'll ever manage."

     Shaking his head, he manages not to laugh, but he does smile. Readjusting his grip on the cases, he rolls his eyes for a moment in a good natured way.

     "Sure Lark, you're a delicate precious flower. You're going to be a dead flower though if Cynthia finds out you made us late for our flight."

     "Alright, alright, I'll be down in just a minute."

* * *

     "Do you have any idea what this guy looks like?"

     The question is asked low into Curt's ear, in the midst of a fake breathy laughter against his shoulder as Curt signals the waiter for another glass of wine for her, and a second whiskey for him.

     "No more than you do."

     The response is whispered back, it's always aggravating to be left so in the dark. They simply have to wait for someone to approach them with the code words that will clue them in, and they can only hope that it will be a swift meeting, but it wouldn't be the first time for either of them to have to wait hours for a rendezvous. Sipping on his whiskey, Curt keeps an eye out as they continue quite casual small talk to fill the silence between them and ease the tension of simply waiting.

     Thirty minutes pass with little activity, small talk finally beginning to lapse into silence as they both find themselves bored to tears as they circle the same few topics over and over again. Curt had at least the decency to cut himself off at the third glass of whiskey, and with his tolerance being as high as it is, he easily passes for sober. Angelica managed to continue sipping on her second glass of wine for quite a while before excusing herself from the table for the supposed purpose of using the restroom, but truly she needs to escape the hushed dining room for a few moments and recollect herself. This is the worst part of any mission, and she knows it, but that doesn't make it any more tolerable to withstand. If the other agent had any decency, they would arrive soon.

     It's when she's moving back down the hall towards the main dining hall that a well dressed man with dark hair and a charming smile stops her.

     "Do you know if it's going to rain tonight? I seem to have forgotten my umbrella."

     It's the right codeword, and the accent is british which says the jurisdiction is likely right, but she fails to let her guard down quite yet, instead smiling back at him with a cool sort of politeness.

     "I wouldn't know, but I hope so. The rain will bring flowers."

     "I never liked the flowers much."

      _It took you long enough._ The thought races through her mind but she fails to give it voice, instead taking another look at the agent. A lanky man, with hair on the longer side, clean shaven and well dressed. He certainly seems to fit in. Offering an arm to him she gives a warmer smile as she tips her head in the direction of the dining room.

     My date and I have a table if you'd care to continue this conversation sure, I'm sure your reasoning is simply _fascinating_."

     It feels to Curt as if it's been centuries since Angelica left the table, leaving him to wait alone for an agent he's suspecting won't arrive within the next millennium. When he finally see her coming into the room, he starts to smile, even starts to stand when he sees she has someone on her arm. That is until he sees who it is, and of course it has to be him. For five months he's been dreading this moment, playing scenario after scenario in his mind on repeat when sleep sinks its claws into him. Smile falters for only a moment before he manages to flag down the waiter, sliding a large bill onto his tray as he makes a request for a glass of water, another glass of wine, and a whiskey on the rocks. Double. He'll need it to get through this without a disaster. Standing a little taller as they approach the table, Angelica looks like she's about to say something before Curt manages to beat her to the punch, and he can almost fool himself with how cordial and nonchalant his tone sounds. Too bad he knows better.

     "Owen, it's been too long."

     "Curt."

     It's an acknowledgement, lacking in warmth or coldness, instead it's so perfectly neutral it almost knocks the younger off balance in the defensive stance he'd been preparing to take. Angelica glances between them, sensing the tension as she releases Owen's arm to stand by Curt's side.

     "I take it that you two know each other?"

     "Of course, where are my manners? Angelica, this is Owen. Owen, this is my wife, Angelica."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can already feel some of the shouting. In fact I heard quite a bit of it from my best friend when I read this to my roommate. I promise all will be revealed with time, and that there are answers to your questions, you'll just have to wait for them.


End file.
